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LIFE AND POETICAL WORKS. Uniform edition. 
Including Life and Letters, 2 vols. ; Poetical Works, 
Household Edition ; Dramatic Works, Household 
Edition; Faust, translated by Taylor, 2 vols. 
The set, 6 vols, crown 8vo, $12.00. 

POETICAL WORKS (except those dramatic in form). 
New Household Edition, from new plates. Edited 
by Marie Hansen-Taylor. With Portrait and 
Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.50; full gilt, $2.00. 

DRAMATIC WORKS. With Notes by Marie Han- 
sen-Taylor. Household Edition. Crown 8vo, 
$1.50. 

THE ECHO CLUB, and Other Literary Diver- 
sions. i8mo, $1.25. 

POEMS OF THE ORIENT. i6mo, gi.25. 

PRINCE DEUKALION. A Lyrical Drama. 8vo, 
full gilt, $3.00. 

MELODIES OF VERSE. Selected Poems. i8mo, 
illuminated vellum, $1.00. 

TRANSLATION OF GOETHE'S FAUST INTO 
ENGLISH VERSE. Kennett Edition. 2 vols. 
Crown 8vo, gilt top, $4.00. 

The Same. One-volume Edition. Crown 8vo, 
gilt top, $2.50. 

LIFE AND LETTERS OF BAYARD TAYLOR. Ed- 
ited by Marie Hansen-Taylor and Horace E. 
Scudder. With Portraits and Illustrations. 2 vols, 
crown 8vo, $4.00. 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY, 
Boston, New York, and Chicago. 




/&ZCyCU-*^ 




THE POETICAL WORKS 

OF BAYARD 

TAYLOR 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 




V ". f O - ■ 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

(£fre 0itoer?'ibe $re#j, Cambri&oe. 

1902 



THE UtKARY ©F 
0GNGRESS, 

Two Copim KecEive* 

WAR »H902 

CLASS ft^ XX<x No 

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COPYRIGHT, 1854, 1855, 1862, 1866, AND 1875, BY BAYARD TAYLOR. COPYRIGHT, 

1864, BY TICKNOR & FIELDS. COPYRIGHT, 1873, BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. 

COPYRIGHT, 1879, BY HOUGHTON, OSGOOD & CO. COPYRIGHT, 1882, 

1883, 1890, 1892, 1894, I90I, AND 1902, BY MARIE TAYLOR. 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



PREFACE BY THE EDITOR 

When it devolved upon me, in 1879, to prepare the collected poems of Bay- 
ard Taylor for the Household Edition of the following year, I was so fortu- 
nate as to have, as an expression of the poet's wishes in regard to the earlier 
productions, his own copy of the Blue and Gold Edition, published in 1865 
by Ticknor and Fields. In that volume, after careful and severe sifting of 
his various publications from 1848 to 1863, Taylor had brought together all the 
poems which he wished to retain in his " complete" poetical works. 

During the latter years of his life, however, his perfected judgment told 
him that in 1865, when he struck out from the Blue and Gold Edition nineteen 
wOf the poems contained in the two volumes, — " Poems of the Orient " (1854), 
"Poems of Home and Travel " (1855), — he had not been sufficiently critical. 
Consequently, to satisfy his. poetic conscience, he marked, in his own Blue and 
Gold copy, a number of poems to be excluded from the new collective edition 
to which he was looking forward. Abridging the table of contents, he wrote 
at its foot: " Including the three songs in ' the Poet's Journal,' there are here 
172 poems covering a period of twenty years. In addition I have written, 
but omitted, 125 others, some of which have never been published. There are 
yet twenty or thirty which might well be spared from this collection." At a 
still later date the number of poems thus marked for omission had risen to 
forty. Aside from these (one of which he himself reinstated) were two songs, 
" Gulistan," and " A Pledge to Hafiz," in regard to which he was uncertain; as 
he had merely marked them as doubtful, I have given them the benefit of the 
doubt, and in the present edition left them in their accustomed places. 

In preparing the Household Edition of 1880, it was no easy task to deal with 
the poems, either not collected in the volume of 1875, or written after its pub- 
lication and still in manuscript. To make amends, if at that time I did not 
reject all the poetical productions Taylor would have rejected, I have elimi- 
nated from the present work, after mature reflection, a few of the poems which 
appeared in the former Household Edition. On the other hand, there is in- 
cluded an additional poem which at last has found its rightful place, and is 
printed for the first time with his collected verse. When preparing the former 
edition, I was not at liberty to include this "Centennial Hymn," owing to 
facts apparent in the correspondence between the two poets (published by 
Mr. Samuel T. Pickard) and Taylor's remark to me, that so long as Whittier 
lived, his own Hymn to the Republic should not come to light. In 1892 this 
restriction was removed by Whittier's death, and two years later the hymn, 
together with its history, appeared in Pickard's "Life and Letters of John 
Greenleaf Whittier " (pp. 616-620). 

The suggestion of arranging the poems of the present edition so far in 



iv PREFACE 

chronological order as would not alter materially the author's own grouping 
came to me from his expressed belief, that to understand the nature of a poet, 
and to see him in his true individuality, one must study him in the development 
of his work. This fits Taylor's case as well as that of any other. In following 
the flight of his imagination, as presented in his poetry, through a space of 
over thirty years, we catch sight of his growth at its various stages, and of the 
influences by which that growth was governed. Song, with him, became en- 
during when, after crossing the Atlantic for the first time, he was stimulated 
by old world impressions. Contact with the picturesque in nature and in his- 
tory, the revelations to him in the art of Italy, his study of German poetry, all 
combined to inspire him with more than passing images and conceptions. 
But to bear true fruitage he had first to return to his native soil. Here he 
shortly afterwards met his life-long friend, Richard Henry Stoddard, who 
was equally enthusiastic that they should become ' ' sacrificers at the altar of 
Divinest Poesy" (letter of Taylor to George H. Boker). At their nightly 
symposia in Taylor's New York attic, these aspiring devotees at the shrine 
of poetry spurred and stimulated each other, and vied in imaginative produc- 
tion. Years later, in a sonnet to Stoddard, Taylor referred to that Arcadian time 

" When first we twain the pleasant land of Rhyme 
Discovered, choosing side by side our seats 
Below our separate Gods : in midnight streets, 
In haunted attics flattered by the chime 
Of silver words, and, fed by faith sublime, 
I Shelley's mantle wore, you that of Keats." 

His fanciful conceit that Shelley's spiritual influence had entered his own 
mind seems pardonable in one who, even before his acquaintance with the 
works of that poet, had voiced in his ' ' Angel of the Soul " the same passion- 
ate appeal for the solution of life's mystery that Shelley had expressed in the 
introductory passage of his " Alastor." But while at even this early period 
his study of Shelley inspired him, and moved him to such songs as ' ' The Ode 
to Shelley" and " Ariel in the Cloven Pine," it is but fair to point to another 
master-singer who might be said to have had, if not an equal, at the least a 
partial, influence on his lyrical expression. While in Germany he read, for 
the first time in the original, Schiller's poems. Appealing to his ear with their 
rhythmical beauty, they stirred his imagination, and through those early years 
of struggle for a "poetical individuality," as he himself termed it in letters 
of that time, there is in his verse the same exuberance of diction, the same 
fervor and passionate chase after the ideal, as is to be found in Schiller's 
" Poems of the First Period." 

This individuality asserted itself in a decided fashion when he produced his 
first three California ballads, — poems which were written before he had vis- 
ited that part of the continent. When they appeared anonymously in "The 
Literary World," thoroughly characteristic though they were, no one so much 
as guessed their origin. In "Kubleh," also, an idyl in which chords were 
struck destined to swing into wider vibrations, we see the steadily ascending 
range of his poetic art. Although " Kubleh " was his earliest pastoral of the 
East, it was not included in his collection of Oriental Poems, but has kept its 



PREFACE v 

place among his Romances and Lyrics. " Hylas," a poem the beauty of which 
his critics were unable to see, and for which they gave him cold praise, was the 
crowning achievement of that period, — yet, although it was pure in form as 
the limbs of a Greek statue, and in tone limpid and clear as the waters of the 
Scamander, at the first breath of adverse criticism Taylor was abashed, and 
for the moment doubted his own ability to handle a classic theme. At the 
time of this latter poem he was passing through experiences of love and sor- 
row, and poetical expression was alternately "a solace and an impossibility"; 
but by degrees, energy of life and creative impulse reasserted themselves until 
as never before he became possessed of the spirit of song. 

Life in the open air, contact with the elemental forces of nature, had always 
dominated him. Although poetry was his one luminary, he wanted to live 
poetry as well as to write it. Travel, new and fresh experiences, were a 
necessity to his nature. When he turned to the East, he was prompted by an 
instinct that seldom failed to lead him aright. Travelling as far as Nubia, — 

" A land of dreams and sleep — a poppied land ! " 

and beyond, "buried in the heat, the silence and the mystery of mid-Africa," 
he found the peace and repose which were needed to make his mind once more 
receptive to poetical conceptions. But it was not until he approached the 
shores of the farther East that the mood seized him to put into visible form 
the songs within his brain. While in India, in China, and " off Japan," such 
poems as "Camadeva" and "Daughter of Egypt, veil thine eyes," came into 
existence. But the most fruitful days were those of the voyage home, when 
song after song was written, to the long swell of the Atlantic and the free 
sweep of ocean winds. Yet although "The Bedouin's Song," "Nubia," 
" Tyre," and " Amram's Wooing " were but a few of the many that bore the 
date of the return, even then the rich lyrical store he had acquired during his 
journeyings through the East was not exhausted. In the extended spring- 
time of productiveness, he wrote the "Song of the Camp," a poem which, 
with "The Bedouin's Song," "Daughter of Egypt," "The Quaker Widow," 
and others, has enjoyed to the present day an undiminished popularity. 

After such an abounding lyrical harvest, it was not strange that, for a time, 
poetry should be ' ' dead and buried " (letter to Boker). Taylor was, in fact, as 
he wrote to his publisher, passing from one phase into another, and he wanted 
to slough the old skin completely before appearing in the new. This state of 
transition was natural. Worshipper hitherto at the shrine of Nature, the 
truth gradually dawned on him that Man was more than she. A poem, 
written in 1856 (judging from existing fragments in manuscript) takes us 
directly into his confidence : — 

" I gave to Nature more than she gave back ; 

The dreams that, vanished once, return no more ; 

Passions that left her colder than before, 
And the warm soul her stubborn features lack. 
It was an echo of my heart I heard 

Sing in the sky , and chant along the sea ; 
My life the affluence of her own conferred, 

And gave her seeming sympathy with me. 



vi PREFACE 

' ' The voices which encouraged me are dumb. 
The soul I recognized in Earth is fled. 
I wait for answers which have ceased to come. 
I press the pulse of Nature ; she is dead. 



"0, not to know, the sunny mist that gilds 

The mountain tops, my breath has thither blown ! 
O, not to feel that loftiest Beauty builds 
In Man her Temple, and in Man alone ! 

" Love, passion, rapture, terror, grief, repose, 
Through him alone the face of Nature knows ; 
There is no aspect of the changing zones 

But springs from something deeper in the heart ; 

Then, let me touch its chords with tender art, 
And cease to chant in wind-harp monotones." 

This composition was entitled ' ' Renunciation. " It was rewritten and published 
in 1859, and appeared for the last time in the collective edition of 1865. 

Several years passed before the poetic mood again seized him, and "The 
Return of the Goddess" ushered in that "freshet of song" which culminated 
in "The Poet's Journal." In a measure "The Poet's Journal" is a retro- 
spect of Taylor's inner life, — his love, sorrow, despair, and final recovery ; but 
in a measure only. That he shrank from giving to the public his inmost 
experiences and feelings was well known to his friends. It may be owing 
to this that lyrics like "On the Headlands" and "Young Love" had for 
seven years been locked in his portfolio, when at last they appeared in 
"The Poet's Journal." 

The din of civil rebellion and the tumult of war were not propitious to Art. 
During the apathy of the country toward imaginative literature, there rose up 
before Taylor, claiming his long postponed devotion, a conception which for 
years had lingered in his mind. Despite many hindrances and the fact that 
his work for the most part had to be done at night, his composition "The Pic- 
ture of St. John," to its very last stanza, had " precedence over all other guests 
of his brain " (letter to E. C. Stedman). With its completion he was free of 
his last debt to the past, and, at the threshold of his final and most mature 
period of artistic and intellectual growth, the ascendency of thought over pas- 
sion dawned upon him. The gigantic labor bestowed by him upon his trans- 
lation of Goethe's "Faust" hastened this full development of his powers; 
and while the task of adequately transposing the German into English enriched 
his mind and taught him to give closer heed to form, or as he put it, " to the 
secret of expression," the poem itself suggested to him a new range of ideas. 

' ' The Sunshine of the Gods " marks the dividing line between the period 
through which he had passed and the one upon which he was entering. Not 
long afterwards the "Home Pastorals" appeared. In them he thrust, as he 
was "learning to do" (letter to T. B. Aldrich, 1872), the " basis of clear sym- 
metrical reality under the forms of fancy." These pastorals he conceived and 
wrote under the stimulus of his study of Goethe, whose " Hermann and Doro- 
thea " convinced him that the hexameter might be mastered in English no less 
effectively than it had been in German. His endeavor, in his pastorals, to 



PREFACE vii 

make it ring with music was so successful that Emerson was moved to write 
(letter to J. T. Fields, December 12, 1870 ) : — 

"I . . . lately wondered whether Clough had risen again and was pouring 
rich English hexameters, until I pleased myself with discovering the singer 
without external hint of any kind, only by the wide travel." 

The Pennsylvania ballads, the odes, and other poems, from this time to Tay- 
lor's premature death, are as so many stepping-stones to the higher goal for 
which he was striving. In the way of a narrative poem, the production of 
"Lars" is one of his best achievements; while the "Improvisations," "Peach 
Blossoms," and "Assyrian Song" reveal that in no wise had his lyrical gift 
suffered by the stage of his growth which some would call metaphysical, but 
which he was better pleased to characterize as psychological. 

Although in bulk and substance Taylor's three dramatic poems, "The 
Masque of the Gods," " The Prophet," and "Prince Deukalion," form an in- 
tegral part of the poetical outcome of this latter period, they are not embraced 
in the present collection, but are published in a separate volume. With the 
exception of these three dramas, all the poems which Bayard Taylor intended 
should be known as his, or might have desired to see included in his works, 
are now given to the public in this new and revised edition. 

M. T. 

New York, January, 1902. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

Bayard Taylor was born January 11, 1825, in Kennett Square, Pennsyl- 
vania. He was of Quaker descent, and although not actually belonging to 
the "Friends," was reared in the principles of their Society. His education 
was restricted to that of a country academy, which did not afford him more 
than the commonest teaching. He himself, however, supplemented this by his 
eagerness to gain information in any way that offered. He read at an early 
age all the books to be found in the village library and in the possession of 
friends; but outside of books Nature was his teacher. Roaming through the 
woods which surrounded his father's farm, and musing on the banks of rip- 
pling streams, he caught the melodies of song, tbe expression of which was a 
necessity to him as long as he lived. Even as early as in his eighth year he 
began to write poetry, and when a youth of sixteen he saw his first poem in 
print. The year after, in 1842, he was placed in a printing-office, to become 
a printer, — a vocation which he soon left, to satisfy a desire for travel. It 
was a true instinct which led him to see the world ; he gained by it what he 
could not get in any other way — his university education ; and the know- 
ledge he gathered of countries and peoples was so much capital invested in 
the interest of poetry. Each record of travel published by him was followed 
by a volume of poems ; and later in life, when his works of travel ceased, and 
his prose took the form of fiction, poetry became more than ever the control- 
ling object of interest. 

His first volume of poems, which afterwards he wished forgotten, was pub- 
lished in 1844, just before he left the printing-office to make his first jour- 
ney in Europe. It is called " Ximena ; or, The Battle of the Sierra Morena, 
and other Poems." The fruit of his two years' wanderings in Europe was 
"Views Afoot; or, Europe seen with Knapsack and Staff," succeeded by 
"Rhymes of Travel, Ballads, and Poems," which appeared in 1848, shortly 
after he had settled in New York, and had become engaged on the staff of the 
New York "Tribune." The following year he made his second journey, as 
correspondent for that paper, to California, the newly discovered gold-mine 
of the continent. The result was a prose volume, "Eldorado; or, Adven- 
tures in the Path of Empire," which was soon followed by a new collection of 
poems, entitled, " A Book of Romances, Lyrics, and Songs." When this vol- 
ume made its appearance, its author was already embarked for Egypt and 
the Orient, India and Japan, — a series of travels which occupied more than 
two successive years. He returned at the close of 1853, and brought back 
with him material for three volumes of prose : " A Journey to Central Africa ; 
or, Life and Landscapes from Egypt to the Negro Kingdoms of the Nile ; " 
" The Lands of the Saracens ; or, Pictures of Palestine, Asia Minor, Sicily, and 



x BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

Spain ; " and "A Visit to India, China, and Japan in the year 1853." Almost 
simultaneously with these the "Poems of the Orient" came forth, to be fol- 
lowed by a new collection of the older poems, with the addition of a number 
of new ones, under the title of " Poems of Home and Travel." The summer 
of 1856 saw him once more in Europe. This time he visited Scandinavia, 
Russia, and Greece, and then published " Northern Travel," and "Travels in 
Greece and Russia, with an Excursion to Crete." "The Poet's Journal," 
which was written not long after (in 1860, although not published until two 
years later), was not directly connected with these travels ; the poems con- 
tained in it were rather the healthy reaction from a most unpoetical field of 
labor into which he had been driven by circumstance, — the lecturing busi- 
ness. 

With the completion of " The Poet's Journal " Bayard Taylor entered upon 
a new epoch of his poetical career. His travels for the sake of seeing the 
world and its people were now a thing of the past ; he turned to the delinea- 
tion of and the problems propounded by human character in three successive 
novels, " Hannah Thurston," "John Godfrey's Fortunes," and "The Story of 
Kennett," to be followed by a fourth one, " Joseph and his Friend," several 
years later (1870) ; he became also absorbed in contemplating the development 
of the artistic nature, as set forth in his next volume of poetry, "The Picture 
of St. John," whilst his mind was already busy with his great work, the 
translation of Goethe's "Faust." The former appeared in 1866; the first 
volume of the latter in 1870, and the second volume in 1871. Of prose vol- 
umes belonging to this period, aside from the novels, there are " By-Ways of 
Europe," sketches written during a two-years' stay abroad, and " Beauty and 
the Beast, and Tales of Home," a collection of short magazine stories. 

The study entailed by the translation of " Faust " must have stimulated the 
creative power of the poet ; for within the two years following the publica- 
tion of the second part of "Faust," Bayard Taylor produced three large 
poems. Two of them — "The Masque of the Gods," and "The Prophet: 
A Tragedy" — are dramatic in form; the third, written between these two, 
is " Lars : A Pastoral of Norway." The two latter poems he wrote during a 
holiday abroad. After returning home, he published also a volume of all his 
shorter poems hitherto uncollected, which he called "Home Pastorals, Bal- 
lads, and Lyrics." In 1876 he was called upon to write the " National Ode " 
for the Centennial Fourth of July ; and shortly before his death, his last work 
of importance — the dramatic poem " Prince Deukalion " — was issued. 

There are publications of Bayard Taylor's of which no mention has been 
made in this brief sketch. They are those of minor consideration, which did 
not seem pertinent to our purpose. It is the poet with whom we have to 
deal here, and as a poet we see him not only in his poetical works, but also in 
his books of travel, in his novels and tales. From a youth, worshipping 
devoutly at the shrine of Poesy, he grew into the man setting his poetic goal 
higher and higher the more he advanced, never flagging in aspiration to the 
end. He died at Berlin, Germany, where, as minister, he was the representa- 
tive of the United States, on December 19, 1878. 



CONTENTS 



EARLY POEMS. 

LYRICS. 1845-1851. 

The Harp : An Ode ... 1 

Serapion 4 

''Moan, Ye "Wild Winds!" . 5 

Taurus 6 

Autumnal Vespers ... 7 

Ode to Shelley ... 8 

Sicilian Wine .... 9 

Storm-Lines .... 10 

The Two Visions ... 11 

Storm Song .... 11 
Song: "I plucked for thee 

the wilding rose" . . 12 

The Waves .... 12 
Song: "From the bosom of 

ocean i seek thee " . .13 

Sonnet. To G. H. B. . . 13 

The Wayside Dream . . 13 

Steyermark .... 14 

To a Bavarian Girl . . 14 

In Italy 15 

A Bacchic Ode . . . .15 

A Funeral Thought . . 16 

The Norseman's Ride . . 17 

The Continents ... 17 

L'Envoi 19 

CALIFORNIA BALLADS AND POEMS. 
1S4S-1851. 

Manuela 19 

The Fight of Paso del Mar . 20 
The Pine Forest of Mon- 
terey . . . . .21 
El Canelo .... 23 
The Summer Camp . . . 24 
The Bison Track ... 27 

ROMANCES. 1849-1851. 

Mon-da-Min ; or, The Romance 

of Maize 28 

Hylas 34 

Kubleh : A Story of the As- 
syrian Desert . . .37 

Metempsychosis of the Pine 39 

The Soldier and the Pard 42 

Ariel in the Cloven Pine . 46 

POEMS OF THE ORIENT. 1851-1854. 

Proem Dedicatory: An Epis- 
tle from Mount Tmolus . 51 
a p.ean to the dawn • • 53 



FAGK 

The Poet in the East . 54 
The Temptation of Hassan 

Ben Khaled . . . .55 
El Khalil .... 61 
Song: "Daughter of Egypt, 

veil thine eyes" . . 62 

Amran's Wooing ... 62 
A Pledge to Hafiz . . .66 
The Garden of Irem . . 67 
The Wisdom of Ali : An Arab 

Legend 68 

An Oriental Idyl ... 69 
Bedouin Song . . . .69 
Desert Hymn to the Sun . 70 
Nilotic Drinking Song . . 71 
Camadeva .... 71 
Nubia 72 



Klllmandjaro 
The Birth of the Prophet 
To the Nile .... 
Hassan to his Mare 

Charmian 

Smyrna .... 
To a Persian Boy 
The Arab to the Palm . 
Aurum Potabile . 
On the Sea 

Tyre 

An Answer 

gultstan . . 

L'Envoi .... 



LATER POEMS. 



72 
73 
75 
75 
76 
77 
77 
78 
78 
79 
80 
80 
81 
81 



FRICS. 1854-1860. 




PORPHYROGENITUS . 


85 


The Song of the Camp . 


. 86 


Icarus .... 


86 


The Bath .... 


. 88 


The Fountain of Trevi 


89 


Proposal .... 


. 89 


The Palm and the Pine 


89 


The Vineyard-Saint 


. 90 


On Leaving California 


91 


Wind and Sea . 


. 92 


My Dead .... 


92 


The Lost Crown 


. 93 


Studies for Pictures . 


93 


Sunken Treasures . 


. 95 


The Voyagers 


96 


Song: "Now the days a 


RE 


BRLEF AND DREAR " 


. 96 


The Mystery . 


97 


A Picture 


. 97 



Xll 



CONTENTS 



In the Meadows . 

"Down in the dell I wan- 
dered" 

Song : " They call thee false 
as thou art fair " . 

The Phantom .... 

THE POET'S JOURNAL. 
Preface: The Return of the 

Goddess 

Inscription : To the Mistress 



103 



of Cedarcroft . 


. 104 


First Evening 


. 105 


The Torso 


. 108 


On the Headland . 


. 109 


Marah 


. 109 


The Voice of the Tempter . 110 


Exorcism . 


. Ill 


Squandered Lives . 


. Ill 


A Symbol 


. 112 


Second Evening . 


. 114 


Atonement 


. 115 


December . 


. 115 


Sylvan Spirits 


. 116 


The Lost May . 


. 116 


Churchyard Roses 


. 117 


Autumnal Dreams . 


. 117 


In Winter 


. 118 


Young Love 


. 118 


The Chapel . 


. 119 


If Love should come again . 119 


Third Evening 


. 121 


The Return of Spring 


. 123 


Morning .... 


. 123 


The Vision . 


. 124 


Love Returned 


. 124 


A Woman . 


. 125 


The Count of Gleichen . 125 


Before the Bridal . 


. 126 


Possession 


. 126 


Under the Moon 


. 127 


The Mystic Summer 


. 128 


The Father 


. 129 


The Mother . 


. 129 


OCCASIONAL POEMS. 1861-1865. 


Through Baltimore 


. 135 


To the American People . 135 


Scott and the Veteran . . 136 


March 


. 137 


Euphorion . 


. 138 


A Thousand Years 


. 138 


The Neva . 


. 139 


A Story for a Child 


. 141 


From the North 


. 141 


A Wedding Sonnet 


. 142 


Christmas Sonnets . 


. 142 


A Statesman . 


. 143 


Chant .... 


. 143 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 


1861-1871. 


A Day in March 


. 147 


The Test . 


. 147 


Canopus 


. 148 



Cupido 149 

The Sleeper .... 150 
My Farm: A Fable . . 152 
Harpocrates .... 153 
Run Wild .... 154 
Sonnet : "Where should the 
Poet's home and household 

be?" 155 

"Casa Guidi Windows" . 155 

Pandora 156 

Sorrento .... 157 

In my Vineyard . . . 158 
The Two Greetings . . 159 
Shekh Ahnaf's Letter from 

Baghdad 160 

Napoleon at Gotha . . 164 
The Accolade . . . .167 
Eric and Axel . . . 168 

THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN. 

Editor's Note .... 173 
Introductory Note . . 175 
Proem: To the Artists . . 177 
Book I. The Artist . . 181 
Book II. The Woman . . 195 
Book III. The Child . . 208 
Book IV. The Picture . . 221 

HOME BALLADS. 

The Quaker Widow . . 237 
The Holly-Tree . . .239 
John Reed .... 241 

Jane Reed 242 

The Old Pennsylvania 
Farmer .... 244 

HOME PASTORALS. 1869-1874. 

Ad Amicos • • . -248 

Proem 249 

May-Time 250 

August 253 

November 256 

L'Envoi 259 

LARS: A PASTORAL OF NORWAY. 
To John Greenleaf Whit- 
tier 262 

Book I 263 

Book II 276 

Book III 290 

LATEST LYRICS. 1870-1878. 

The Burden of the Day . 307 
In the Lists .... 307 
The Sunshine of the Gods . 308 
Notus Ignoto .... 309 
The Two Homes . . .310 

Iris 311 

Implora Pace . . . .311 
Penn Calvin . . . .312 
Summer Night . . . 313 

The Guests of Night . . 314 
Sonnet: "Who, harnessed in 
his mail of Self, demands " 315 



CONTENTS 



xin 



To Marie .... 
Centennial, Hymn 
The Song of 1870 . 
Improvisations . 
Marigold .... 
Will and Law . , 
True Love's Time of Day 

Youth 

The Imp of Springtime 
A Lover's Test . 
To my Daughter . 
A Friend's Greeting 
Peach-Blossom 
Assyrian Night-Song 
My Prologue . 



315 
315 
316 
316 
319 
319 
319 
319 
320 
320 
321 
321 
322 
323 
323 



Gabriel 

The Lost Caryatid 

The Village Stork . 

ODES. 1869-1878. 

Gettysburg Ode . 
Shakespeare's Statue 
Goethe .... 
The National Ode . 
The Obsequies in Rome 
Epicedium . 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
INDEX OF TITLES 



324 

324 
326 



331 
335 
338 
342 
348 
350 

355 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE - 

Bayard Taylor (Photogravure) ...... Frontispiece 

The Arno 15 *-^ 

"Of canons grown with pine and folded deep" 24 *^ 

The Sphinx 42 »^ 

Bedouin Song (facsimile) 69 *f 

"Thou guardest temple and vast pyramid" 75*^ 

" When buds have burst the silver sheath " 116 ^ 

"Italy, loved of the sun" 156^ 

"To silent Venice in her crystal nest" 187^, 

"From out the fading maze of mountains" 218 S 

"The mother looked from the house" 210V 

" I 'M GLAD I BUILT THIS SOUTHERN PORCH " 244 k 

November 256 v 

William Cullen Bryant 350 »" 



The manuscript of Bedouin Song was kindly lent by Mr. Richard Henry Stoddard. 



EARLY POEMS 



LYRICS 



1845-1851 



THE HARP: AN ODE 



Wttf.x bleak winds through the North- 
ern pines were sweeping, 
Some hero-skald, reclining on the 
sand, 
Attuned it first, the chords harmoni- 
ous keeping 
With murmuring forest and with 
moaning strand : 
And when, at night, the horns of 
mead foamed over, 
And torches flared around the was- 
sail board, 
It breathed no song of maid, nor sigh 
of lover, 
It rang aloud the triumphs of the 
sword ! 
It mocked the thunders of the ice- 
ribbed ocean, 
With clenched hands beating back 
the dragon's prow ; 
It gave Berserker arms their battle 
motion. 
And swelled the red veins on the 
Vikino-'s brow ! 



No myrtle, plucked in dalliance, ever 
sheathed it, 
To melt the savage ardor of its 
flow ; 
The only gauds wherewith its lord 
enwreathed it. 
The lusty fir and Druid mistletoe. 
Thus bound, it kept the old, accus- 
tomed cadence, 
Whether it pealed through slumber- 
ous ilex bowers 
In stormy wooing of Byzantine maid- 
ens. 
Or shook Trinacria's languid lap of 
flowers ; 



Whether Genseric's conquering march 
it chanted, 
Till cloudy Atlas rang with Gothic 
staves, 
Or where gray Calpe's pillared feet 
are planted, 
Died grandly out upon the unknown 
waves ! 



Not unto Scania's bards alone belong- 
ing, 
The craft that loosed its tongues of 
changing sound, 
For Ossian played, and ghosts of he- 
roes, thronging, 
Leaned on their spears above the 
misty mound. 
The Cambrian eagle, round his eyrie 
winging, 
Heard the wild chant through 
mountain-passes rolled, 
When bearded throats chimed in with 
mighty singing, 
And monarchs listened, in their 
torques of gold : 
Its dreary wail, blent with the sea- 
mews' clangor, 
Surged round the lonely keep of 
Penmaen-Mawr ; 
It pealed aloud, in battle's glorious 
anger, 
Behind the banner of the Blazing 
Star! 



The strings are silent ; who shall dare 
to wake them, 
Though later deeds demand their 
living powers ? 
Silent in other lands, what hand shall 
make them 
Leap as of old, to shape the songs 
of ours ? 



LYRICS 



Here, while the sapless bulk of Eu- 
rope moulders, 
Springs the rich blood to hero-veins 
unsealed, — 
Source of that Will, that on its fear- 
less shoulders 
Would bear the world's fate lightly 
as a shield : 
Here moves a larger life, to grander 
measures 
Beneath our sky and through our 
forests rung ; 
Why sleeps the harp, forgetful of its 
treasures, — 
Buried in songs that never yet were 
sung? 



Great, solemn songs, that with majes- 
tic sounding 
Should swell the Nation's heart 
from sea to sea ; 
Informed with power, with earnest 
hope abounding 
And prophecies of triumph yet to 
be! 
Songs, by the wild wind for a thou- 
sand ages 
Hummed o'er our central prairies, 
vast and lone ; 
Glassed by the Northern lakes in crys- 
tal pages, 
And carved by hills on pinnacles of 
stone ; 
Songs chanted now, where undiscov- 
ered fountains 
Make in the wilderness their bab- 
bling home, 
And through the deep-hewn canons of 
the mountains 
Plunge the cold rivers in perpetual 
foam! 



Sung but by these : our forests have 
no voices ; 
Rapt with no loftier strain our riv- 
ers roll ; 
Far in the sky, no song-crowned peak 
rejoices 
In words that give the silent air a 
soul. 
Wake, mighty Harp! and thrill the 
shores that hearken 
For the first peal of thine immortal 
rhyme : 



Call from the shadows that begin to 
darken 
The beaming forms of our heroic 
time : 
Sing us of deeds, that on thy strings 
outsoaring 
The ancient soul they glorified so 
long, 
Shall win the world to hear thy grand 
restoring, 
And own thy latest thy sublimest 
song! 

1850. 



SERAPION 

Come hither, Child ! thou silent, shy 
Young creature of the glorious eye ! 
Though never yet by ruder air 
Than father's kiss or mother's prayer 
Were stirred the tendrils of thy hair, 
The sadness of a soul that stands 
Withdrawn from Childhood's frolic 

bands, 
A stranger in the land, I trace 
Upon thy brow's cherubic grace 
The tender pleadings of thy face, 
Where other stars than Joy and Hope 
Have cast thy being's horoscope. 

For thee, the threshold of the world 
Is yet with morning dews impearled ; 
The nameless radiance of Birth 
Imbathes thy atmosphere of Earth, 
And, like a finer sunshine, swims 
Round every motion of thy limbs : 
The sweet, sad wonder and surprise 
Of waking glimmers in thine eyes, 
And wiser instinct, purer sense, 
And gleams of rare intelligence 
Betray the converse held by thee 
With the angelic family. 

Come hither, Boy ! For while I press 
Thy lips' confiding tenderness, 
Less broad and dark the spaces be 
Which Life has set 'twixt thee and me. 
Thy soul's white feet shall soon de- 
part 
On paths I walked with eager heart ; 
God give thee, in His kindly grace, 
A brighter road, a loftier place! 
I see thy generous nature flow 
In boundless trust to friend and foe, 
And leap, despite of shocks and harms, 



MOAN, YE WILD WINDS!" 



To clasp the world in loving arms. 
I see that glorious circle shrink 
Back to thy feet, at Manhood's brink, 
Narrowed to one, one image fair, 
And all its splendor gathered there. 
The shackles of experience then 
Sit lightly as on meaner men : 
In flinty paths thy feet may bleed, 
Thorns* pierce thy flesh, thou shalt 

not heed, 
Till when, all panting from the task. 
Thine arms outspread their right shall 

ask, 
Thine arms outspread that right shall 

fly. 

The star shall burst, the splendor die ! 
Go, with thy happier brothers play, 
As heedless and as wild as they ; 
Seek not so soon thy separate way, 
Thou lamb in Childhood's field astray ! 

"Whence earnest thou ? what angel 

bore 
Thee past so many a fairer shore 
Of guarding love, and guidance mild, 
To drop thee on this barren wild ? 
Thy soul is lonely as a star, 
When all its fellows muffled are, — 
A single star, whose light appears 
To glimmer through subduing tears. 
The" father who begat thee sees 
In thee no deeper mysteries 
Than load his heavy ledger's page, 
And swell for him thy heritage. 
A hard, cold man, of punctual face, 
Renowned in Credit's holy-place, 
Whose very wrinkles seem arrayed 
In cunniug hieroglyphs of trade, — 
Whose gravest thought but just un- 
locks 
The problems of uncertain stocks, — 
Whose farthest flights of hope extend 
From dividend to dividend. 
Thy mother, — but a mother's name 
Too sacred is, too sweet for blame. 
No doubt she loves thee, — loves the 

shy, 
Strange beauty of thy glorious eye ; 
Loves the soft mouth, whose drooping 

line 
Is silent music ; loves to twine 
Thy silky hair in ringlets trim ; 
To watch thy lightsome play of 

limb; 
But. God forgive me ! I, who find 
The soul within that beauty shrined, 



I love thee more, I know thy worth 
Better, than she who gave thee birth. 

Are they thy keepers ? They would 

thrust 
The priceless jewel in the dust ; 
Would tarnish in their careless hold 
The vessel of celestial gold. 
Who gave them thee ? What fortune 

lent 
Their hands the delicate instrument, 
Which finer hands might teach to 

hymn 
The harmonies of Seraphim, 
Which they shall make discordant 

soon, 
The sweet bells jangled, out of tune ? 
Mine eyes are dim : I cannot see 
The purposes of Destiny, 
But than my love Heaven could not 

shine 
More lovingly, if thou wert mine ! 
Rest then securely on my heart : 
Give me thy trust : my child thou art, 
And I shall lead thee through the 

years 
To Hopes and Passions, Loves and 

Fears, 
Till, following up Life's endless plan 
A strong and self-dependent Man, 
I see thee stand and strive with men : 
Thy Father now, thy Brother then. 

1851. 



"MOAN, YE WILD WINDS!" 

Moan, ye wild winds! around the 

pane, 
And fall, thou drear December rain ! 
Fill with your gusts the sullen day, 
Tear the last clinging leaves away ! 
Reckless as yonder naked tree, 
No blast of yours can trouble me. 

Give me your chill and stern embrace, 
And pour your baptism on my face, 
Sound in mine ears the airy moan 
That sweeps in desolate monotone, 
Where on the unsheltered hill-top beat 
The marches of your homeless feet. 

Moan on, ye winds ! and pour, thou 

rain! 
Your stormy sobs and tears are vain, 
If shed for her whose fading eyes 



6 



LYRICS 



Will open soon on Paradise: 

The eye of Heaven shall blinded be, 

Or ere ye cease, if shed for me. 

1850. 



TAURUS 



The Scorpion's stars crawl down be- 
hind the sun, 
And when he drops below the verge 
of day, 
The glittering fangs, their fervid 
courses run, 
Cling to his skirts and follow him 
away. 
Then, ere the heels of flying Capricorn 
Have touched the western moun- 
tain's darkening rim, 
I mark, stern Taurus, through the 
twilight gray 
The glinting of thy horn, 
And sullen front, uprising large and 
dim, 
Bent to the starry hunter's sword, at 
bay. 



Thy hoofs, unwilling, climb the 
sphery vault ; 
Thy red eye trembles with an angry 
glare, 
When the hounds follow, and in fierce 
assault 
Bay through the fringes of the 
lion's hair. 
The stars that once were mortal in 
their love, 
And by their love are made immor- 
tal now, 
Cluster like golden bees upon thy 
mane, 
When thou, possessed with 
Jove, 
Bore sweet Europa's garlands on 
thy brow, 
And stole her from the green Sicilian 
plain. 



Type of the stubborn force that will 
not bend 
To loftier art, — soul of defiant 
breath 



That blindly stands and battles to the 
end, 
Nerving resistance with the throes 
of death, — 
Majestic Taurus! when thy wrathful 
eye 
Flamed brightest, and thy hoofs a 
moment stayed 
Their march at Night's meridian, I was 
born : 
But in the western sky, 
Like sweet Europa, Love's fair star 
delayed, 
To hang her garland on thy silver 
horn. 



rv 

Thou giv'st that temper of enduring 
mould, 
That slights the wayward bent of 
Destiny, — 
Such as sent forth the shaggy Jarls 
of old 
To launch their dragons on the 
unknown sea : 
Such as keep strong the sinews of the 
sword, 
The proud, hot blood of battle, — 
welcome made 
The headsman's axe, the rack, the 
martyr-fire, 

The ignominious cord, 
When but to yield, had pomps and 
honors laid 
On heads that moulder in ignoble mire. 



Night is the summer when the soul 
grows ripe 
With Life's full harvest: of her 
myriad suns, 
Thou dost not gild the quiet herds- 
man's pipe, 
Nor royal state, that royal actions 
shuns. 
But in the noontide of thy ruddy stars 
Thrive strength, and daring, and 
the blood whence springs 
The Heraclidean seed of heroes ; then 
W'ere sundered Gaza's bars ; 
Then, 'mid the smitten Hydra's 
loosened rings, 
His slayer rested, in the Lernean fen. 



AUTUMNAL VESPERS 



Thine is the subtle element that 
turns 
To fearless act the impulse of the 
hour, — 
The secret fire, whose flash electric 
burns 
To every .source of passion and of 
power. 
Therefore I hail thee, on thy glittering 
track : 
Therefore I watch thee, when the 
night grows dark, 
Slow-rising, front Orion's sword along 
The starry zodiac, 
And from thy mystic beam demand 
a spark 
To warm my soul with more heroic 
song. 
California, 1849. 



AUTUMNAL VESPERS 

The clarion Wind, that blew so loud 
at morn, 
Whirling a thousand leaves from 

every bough 
Of the purple woods, has not a 
whisper now ; 
Hushed on the uplands is the hunts- 
man's horn, 
And huskers whistling round the 
tented corn : 
The snug warm cricket lets his clock 
run down, 
Scared by the chill, sad hour that 
makes forlorn 

The Autumn's gold and 
brown. 

The light is dying out on field and 
wold ; 
The life is dying in the leaves and 

grass. 
The World's last breath no longer 
dims the glass 
Of waning sunset, yellow, pale, and 

♦ coll 
His genial pulse, which Summer made 
so bold, 
Has ceased. Haste, Night, and 
spread thy decent pall ! 
The silent, stiffening Frost makes 
havoc : fold 

The darkness over all ! 



The light is dying out o'er all the land, 
And in my heart the light is dying. 

She, 
My life's best life, is fading silently 
From Earth, from me, and from the 

dreams we planned, 
Since first Love led us with his beam- 
ing hand 
From hope to hope, yet kept his 
crown in store. 
The light is dying out o'er all the 
land : 

To me it comes no more. 

The blossom of my heart, she shrinks 
away, 
Stricken with deadly blight : more 

wan and weak 
Her love replies in blanching lip 
and cheek, 
And gentler in her dear eyes, day by 

day. 
God, in Thy mercy, bid the arm de- 
lay, 
Which through her being smites to 
dust my own ! 
Thou gav'st the seed thy sun and 
showers ; why slay 
The blossoms yet unblown 1 

In vain, — in vain ! God will not bid 
the Spring 
Replace with sudden green the Au- 
tumn's gold ; 
And as the night-mists, gathering 
damp and cold, 
Strike up the vales where watercourses 

sing, 
Death's mists shall strike along her 
veins, and cling 
Thenceforth forever round her glori- 
ous frame : 
For all her radiant presence, May shall 
bring 
A memory and a name. 

What know the woods, that soon shall 

be so stark ? 
What know the barren fields, the 

songless air, 
Locked in benumbing cold, of 

blooms more fair 
In mornings ushered by the April 

lark? 
Weak solace this, which grief will 

never hark ; 



s 



LYRICS 



Blind as a bud in stiff December's 
mail, 
To lift her look beyond the frozen dark 
No memory can avail. 

I never knew the autumnal eves could 
wear, 
With all their pomp, so drear a hue 

of Death ; 
I never knew their still and solemn 
breath 
Could rob the breaking heart of 

strength to bear, 
Feeding the blank submission of de- 
spair. 
Yet, peace, sad soul! reproach and 
pity shine 
Suffused through starry tears: bend 
thou in prayer, 
Rebuked by Love divine. 

Our life is scarce the twinkle of a star 
In God's eternal day. Obscure and 

dim 
With mortal clouds, it yet may 
beam for Him, 
And darkened here, shine fair to 

spheres afar. 
I will be patient, lest my sorrow bar 
His grace and blessing, and I fall 
supine : 
In my own hands my want and weak- 
ness are, — 
My strength, O God ! in 
Thine. 

1850. 



ODE TO SHELLEY 



Why art thou dead ? Upon the hills 
once more 
The golden mist of waning Autumn 
lies ; 
The slow-pulsed billows wash along 
the shore, 
And phantom isles are floating in 
the skies. 
They wait for thee : a spirit in the 
sand 
Hushes, expectant for thy coming 
tread ; 
The light wind pants to lift thy trem- 
bling hair ; 
Inward, the silent land 



Lies with its mournful woods ; — 
why art thou dead, 
When Earth demands that thou shalt 
call her fair ? 

n 

Why art thou dead ? I too demand 
thy song, 
To speak the language yet denied to 
mine, 
Twin-doomed with thee, to feel the 
scorn of Wrong, 
To worship Beauty as a thing di- 
vine ! 
Thou art afar: wilt thou not soon 
return 
To tell me that which thou hast 
never told ? 
To clasp my throbbing hand, and, by 
the shore 

Or dewy mountain-fern, 
Pour out thy heart as to a friend of 
old, 
Touched with a twilight sadness? 
Nevermore. 



I could have told thee all the sylvan 
joy 
Of trackless woods; the meadows 
far apart, 
Within whose fragrant grass, a lonely 
boy, 
I thought of God ; the trumpet at 
my heart, 
When on bleak mountains roared the 
midnight storm, 
And I was bathed in lightning, 
broad and grand : 
Oh, more than all, with soft and rever- 
ent breath 
And forehead flushing warm, 
I would have led thee through the 
summer land 
Of early Love, and past my dreams of 
Death ! 

IV 

In thee, Immortal Brother! had I 
found 
That Voice of Earth, that fails my 
feebler lines : 
The awful speech of Rome's sepulchral 
ground ; 
The dusky hymn of Vallombrosa's 
pines ! 



SICILIAN WINE 



From thee the noise of Ocean would 
have taken 
A grand defiance round the moveless 
shores, 
And vocal grown the Mountain's silent 
heacT: 

Canst thou not yet awaken 
Beneath the funeral cypress ? Earth 
implores 
Thy presence for her son ; — why art 
thou dead ? 



I do but rave : for it is better thus. 
Were once thy starry nature given 
to mine, 
In the one life which would encircle 
us 
My voice would melt, my soul be 
lost in thine. 
Better to bear the far sublimer pain 
Of Thought that has not ripened 
into speech, 
To hear in silence Truth and Beauty 
sing 
Divinely to the brain ; 
For thus the Poet at the last shall 
reach 
His own soul's voice, nor crave a bro- 
ther's string. 

1848. 



SICILIAN WINE 

I 've drunk Sicilia's crimson wine ! 
The blazing vintage pressed 
From grapes on Etna's breast, 
What time the mellowing autumn sun 

did shine : 
I 've drunk the wine ! 
I feel its blood divine 
Poured on the sluggish tide of mine, 
Till, kindling slow, 
Its fountains glow 
With the light that swims 
On their trembling brims, 
And a molten sunrise floods my limbs! 
AVhat do I here ? 
I've drunk the wine, 
And lo ! the bright blue heaven is 

clear 
Above the ocean's bluer sphere, 
Seen through the long arcades of 

pine, 
Inwoven and arched with vine ! 



The glades are green below ; 

The temple shines afar ; 

Above, old Etna's snow 

Sparkles with many an icy star : 

I see the mountain and its marble 
wall, 

Where gleaming waters fall 

And voices call, 

Singing and calling 

Like chorals falling 

Through pearly doors of some Olym- 
pian hall, 

Where Love holds bacchanal. 

Sicilian wine ! Sicilian wine ! 

Summer, and Music, and Song divine 

Are thine, — all thine ! 

A sweet wind over the roses plays ; 

The wild bee hums at my languid ear ; 

The mute-winged moth serenely strays 

On the downy atmosphere, 

Like hovering Sleep, that overweighs 

My lids with his shadow, yet comes 
not near. 

Who '11 share with me this languor ? 

With me the juice of Etna sip ? 

Who press the goblet's lip, 

Refusing mine the while with love's 
enchanting anger ? 

Would I were young Adonis now ! 

With what an ardor bold 

Within my arms I 'd fold 

Fair Aphrodite of Idalian mould, 

And let the locks that hide her gleam- 
ing brow 

Fall o'er my shoulder as she lay 

With the fair swell of her immortal 
breast 

Upon my bosom pressed, 

Giving Olympian thrills to its enam- 
ored clay ! 

Bacchus and Pan have fled : 

No heavy Satyr crushes with his tread 

The verdure of the meadow ground, 

But in their stead 

The Nymphs are leading a bewilder- 
ing round, 

Vivid and light, as o'er some flowering 
rise 

A dance of butterflies, 

Their tossing hair with slender lilies 
crowned, 

And greener ivy than o'erran 

The brows of Bacchus and the reed of 
Pan! 



IO 



LYRICS 



I faint, I die : 

The flames expire, 

That made my blood a lurid fire : 

Steeped in delicious weariness I lie. 

Oh lay me in some pearled shell, 

Soft-balanced on the rippling sea, 

Where sweet, cheek-kissing airs may 

wave 
Their fresh wings over me ; 
Let me be wafted with the swell 
Of Nereid voices : let no billow rave 
To break the cool green crystal of the 

sea. 
For I will wander free 
Past the blue islands and the fading 

shores, 
To Calpe and the far Azores, 
And still beyond, and wide away, 
Beneath the dazzling wings of tropic 

day, 
Where, on unruffled seas, 
Sleep the green isles of the Hesperides. 

The Triton's trumpet calls : 
I hear, I wake, I rise : 
The sound peals up the skies 
And mellowed Echo falls 
In answer back from Heaven's ceru- 
lean walls. 
Give me the lyre that Orpheus played 

upon, 
Or bright Hyperion, — 
Nay, rather come, thou of the mighty 

bow, 
Come thou below, 

Leaving thy steeds unharnessed go! 
Sing as thou wilt, my voice shall dare 

to follow, 
And I will sun me in thine awful 

glow, 
Divine Apollo ! 

Then thou thy lute shalt twine 
With Bacchic tendrils of the glorious 

vine 
That gave Sicilian wine : 
And henceforth when the breezes 

run 
Over its clusters, ripening in the 

sun, 
The leaves shall still be playing, 
Unto thy lute its melody repaying, 
And I, that quaff, shall evermore be 

free 
To mount thy car and ride the heavens 

with thee ! 

1848. 



STORM-LINES 

When the rains of November are dark 
on the hills, and the pine-trees 
incessantly roar 

To the sound of the wind-beaten crags, 
and the floods that in foam 
through their black channels 
pour : 

When the breaker-lined coast stretches 
dimly afar through the desolate 
waste of the gale, 

And the clang of the sea-gull at night- 
fall is heard from the deep, like 
a mariner's wail : 

When the gray sky drops low, and 
the forest is bare, and the la- 
borer is housed from the storm, 

And the world is a blank, save the 
light of his home through the 
gust shining redly and warm : — 

Go thou forth, if the brim of thy 

heart with its tropical fulness 

of life overflow, — 
If the sun of thy bliss in the zenith 

is hung, nor a shadow reminds 

thee of woe ! 

Leave the home of thy love ; leave 
thy labors of fame ; in the rain 
and the darkness go forth, ' 

When the cold winds unpausingly 
wail as they drive from the 
cheerless expanse of the North. 

Thou shalt turn from the cup that 
was mantling before ; thou 
shalt hear the eternal despair 

Of the hearts that endured and were 
broken at last, from the hills 
and the sea and the air ! 

Thou shalt hear how the Earth, the 
maternal, laments for the chil- 
dren she nurtured with tears, — 

How the forest but deepens its wail 
and the breakers their roar, with 
the march of the years ! 

Then the gleam of thy hearth-fire shall 
dwindle away, and the lips of 
thy loved ones be still ; 



STORM SONG 



T I 



And thy soul shall lament in the moan 
of the storm, sounding wide on 
the shelterless hill. 

All the woes of existence shall stand 
at thy heart, and the sad eyes 
of myriads implore, 

In the darkness and storm of their 
being, the ray, streaming out 
through thy radiant door. 

Look again : how that star of thy Para- 
dise dims, through the warm 
tears, unwittingly shed ; — 

Thou art man, and a sorrow so bitterly 
wrung never fell on the dust of 
the Dead ! 

Let the rain of the midnight beat cold 
on thy cheek, and the proud 
pulses chill in thy frame, 

Till the love of thy bosom is grateful 
and sad, and thou turn'st from 
the mockery of Fame ! 

Take with humble acceptance the gifts 
of thy life; let thy joy touch 
the fountain of tears ; 

For the soul of the Earth, in endur- 
ance and pain, gathers promise 
of happier years ! 
1849. 



THE TWO VISIONS 

Thuough days of toil, through nightly 

fears, 
A vision blessed my heart for years ; 
And so secure its features grew, 
My heart believed the blessing true. 

I saw her there, a household dove, 
In consummated peace of love, 
And sweeter joy and saintlier grace 
Breathed o'er the beauty of her face : 

The joy and grace of love at rest, 
The fireside music of the breast, 
When vain desires and restless schemes 
Sleep, pillowed on our early dreams. 

Nor her alone : beside her stood, 
In gentler types, our love renewed ; 
Our separate beings one, in Birth, — 
The darling miracles of Earth. 



The mother's smile, the children's 

kiss, 
And home's serene, abounding bliss ; 
The fruitage of a life that bore 
But idle summer blooms before : 

Such was the vision, far and sweet, 
That, still beyond Time's lagging feet, 
Lay glimmering in my heart for 

years, 
Dim with the mist of happy tears. 

That vision died, in drops of woe, 
In blotting drops, dissolving slow : 
Now, toiling day and sorrowing night, 
Another vision fills my sight. 

A cold mound in the winter snow ; 
A colder heart at rest below ; 
A life in utter loneness hurled, 
And darkness over all the world. 

1850. 



STORM SONG 

The clouds are scudding across the 
moon, 
A misty light is on the sea ; 
The wind in the shrouds has a wintry 
tune, 
And the foam is flying free. 

Brothers, a night of terror and 
gloom 
Speaks in the cloud and gathering 
roar ; 
Thank God, He has given us broad 
sea-room, 
A thousand miles from shore. 

Down with the hatches on those who 
sleep ! 
The wild and whistling deck have 
we ; 
Good watch, my brothers, to-night 
we '11 keep, 
While the tempest is on the sea ! 

Though the rigging shriek in his 
terrible grip, 
And the naked spars be snapped 
away. 
Lashed to the helm, we '11 drive our 
ship 
In the teeth of the whelming spray ! 



12 



LYRICS 



Hark! how the surges o'erleap the 
deck! 
Hark! how the pitiless tempest 
raves ! 
Ah, daylight will look upon many a 
wreck 
Drifting over the desert waves. 

Yet, courage, brothers ! we trust the 
wave, 
With God above us, our guiding 
chart : 
So, whether to harbor or ocean-grave, 
Be it still with a cheery heart! 

Gulf of Mexico, 1850. 



SONG 

I plucked for thee the wilding rose 

And wore it on my breast, 
And there, till daylight's dusky 
close, 

Its silken cheek was pressed ; 
Its desert breath was sweeter far 

Than palace-rose could be, 
Sweeter than all Earth's blossoms 
are, 

But that thou gav'st to me. 

I kissed its leaves, in fond despite 

Of lips that failed my own, 
And Love recalled that sacred night 

His blushing flower was blown. 
I vowed, no rose should rival mine, 

Though withered now, and pale, 
Till those are plucked, whose white 
buds twine 

Above thy bridal veil. 

1849. 



THE WAYES 



Children are we 

Of the restless sea, 
Swelling in anger or sparkling in glee ; 

We follow our race, 

In shifting chase, 
Over the boundless ocean-space ! 
Who hath beheld where the race be- 
gun ? 

Who shall behold it run ? 

Who shall behold it run ? 



When the smooth airs keep 
Their noontide sleep, 
We dimple the cheek of the dreaming 
deep ; 
When the rough winds come, 
From their cloudy home, 
At the tap of the hurricane's thunder- 
drum, 
Deep are the furrows of wrath we 
plough, 
Bidging his darkened brow ! 
Bidging his darkened brow ! 



Over us born, 
The unclouded Morn 
Trumpets her joy with the Triton's 
horn, 
And sun and star 
By the thousand are 
Orbed in our glittering, near and 

far: 
And the splendor of Heaven, the pomp 
of Day, 
Shine in our laughing spray ! 
Shine in our laughing spray ! 

IV 

We murmur our spell 

Over sand and shell ; 
We girdle the reef with a combing 
swell ; 

And bound in the vice, 

Of the Arctic ice, 
We build us a palace of grand de- 
vice — 
Walls of crystal and splintered spires, 

Flashing with diamond fires ! 

Flashing with diamond fires! 



In the endless round 
Of our motion and sound, 
The fairest dwelling of Beauty is 
found, 
And with voice of strange 
And solemn change, 
The elements speak in our world-wide 

range, 
Harping the terror, the might, the 
mirth, 
Sorrows and hopes of Earth ! 
Sorrows and hopes of Earth ! 

1850. 



THE WAYSIDE DREAM 



13 



SONG 

From: the bosom of ocean I seek 
thee, 
Thou lamp of my spirit afar, 
As the seaman, adrift in the dark- 
ness, 
Looks up for the beam of his star ; 
And when on the moon-lighted water 

The spirits of solitude sleep, 
Iffy soul, in the light of thy beauty, 
'Lies hushed as the waves of the 
deep. 

As the shafts of the sunrise are broken 

Far over the glittering sea, 
Thou hast dawned on the waves of 
my dreaming, 
And each thought has a sparkle of 
thee. 
And though, with the white sail dis- 
tended, 
I speed from the vanishing shore, 
Thou wilt give to the silence of ocean 
The spell of thy beauty the more. 

Gulf of Mexico, 1850. 



SONNET 

TO G. H. B. 

Yor comfort me as one that, knowing 
Fate, 

Would paint her visage kinder than 
you deem ; 

You say, my only bliss that is no 
dream 

She clouds, but makes not wholly 
desolate. 

Ah, Friend ! your heart speaks words 
of little weight 

To veil that sadder knowledge, learned 
in song, 

And 'gainst your solace Grief has 
made me strong : 

The Gods are jealous of our low es- 
tate; 

They give not Fame to Love, nor 
Love to Fame ; 

Power cannot taste the joy the hum- 
bler share, 

Nor holy Beauty breathe in Luxury's 
air, 

And all in darkness Genius feeds his 
flame. 



"We build and build, poor fools! and 

all the while 
Some Demon works unseen, and saps 

the pile. 



1S50. 



THE WAYSIDE DREAM 

The deep and lordly Danube 

Goes winding far below ; 
I see the white -walled hamlets 

Amid his vineyards glow, 
And southward, through the ether, 
shine 

The Styrian hills of snow. 

O'er many a league of landscape 
Sleeps the warm haze of noon ; 

The wooing winds come freighted 
With messages of June, 

And down among the corn and flow- 
ers 
I hear the water's tune. 

The meadow-lark is singing, 

As if it still were morn; 
Within the dark pine-forest 

The hunter winds his horn, 
And the cuckoo's shy, complaining 
note 

Mocks the maidens in the corn. 

I watch the cloud-armada 

Go sailing up the sky, 
Lulled by the murmuring mountain 
grass 
Upon whose bed I lie, 
And the faint sound of noonday 
chimes 
That in the distance die. 

A warm and drowsy sweetness 

Is stealing o'er my brain ; 
I see no more the Danube 

Sweep through his royal plain ; 
I hear no more the peasant girls 

Singing amid the grain. 

Soft, silvery wings, a moment 
Have swept across my brow: 

Again I hear the water, 
But its voice is sweeter now, 

And the mocking-bird and oriole 
Are singing on the bough ; 



14 



LYRICS 



The elm and linden branches 
Droop close and dark o'erhead, 

And the foaming forest brooklet 
Leaps down its rocky bed : 

Be still, my heart ! the seas are passed, 
The paths of home I tread ! 

The showers of creamy blossoms 

Are on the linden spray, 
And down the clover meadow 

They heap the scented hay, 
And glad winds toss the forest leaves, 

All the bright summer day. 

Old playmates ! bid me welcome 

Amid your brother-band ; 
Give me the old affection, — 

The glowing grasp of hand ! 
I seek no more the realms of old, — 

Here is my Fatherland ! 

Come hither, gentle maiden, 
Who weep'st in tender joy! 

The rapture of thy presence 
Repays the world's annoy, 

And calms the wild and ardent heart 
Which warms the wandering boy. 

In many a mountain fastness, 

By many a river's foam, 
And through ihe gorgeous cities, 

'T was loneliness to roam ; 
For the sweetest music in my heart 

Was the olden songs of home. 

Ah, glen and grove are vanished, 
And friends have faded now ! 

. The balmy Styrian breezes 
Are blowing on my brow, 

And sounds again the cuckoo's call 
From the forest's inmost bough. 

Fled is that happy vision, — 
The gates of slumber fold ; 

I rise and journey onward 

Through valleys green and old, 

Where the far, white Alps announce 
the morn, 
And keep the sunset's gold. 

Upper Austria, 1845. 

STEYERMARK 

In Steyermark, — green Steyermark, 
The fields are bright and the forests 
dark, — 



Bright with the maids that bind the 
sheaves, 

Dark with the arches (rf whispering 
leaves. 

Voices and streams and sweet bells 
chime 

Over the land, in the harvest-time, 

And the blithest songs of the finch and 
lark 

Are heard in the orchards of Steyer- 
mark. 

In Steyermark, — old Steyermark, 

The mountain summits are white and 
stark ; 

The' rough winds furrow their track- 
less snow, 

But the mirrors of crystal are smooth 
below ; 

The stormy Danube clasps the wave 

That downward sweeps with the Drave 
and Save, 

And the Euxine is whitened with many 
a bark, 

Freighted with ores of Steyermark ! 

In Steyermark, — rough Steyermark, 
The anvils ring from dawn till dark ; 
The molten streams of the furnace 

glare, 
Blurring with crimson the midnight 

air ; 
The lusty voices of forgemen chord, 
Chanting the ballad of Siegfried's 

Sword, 
While the hammers swung by their 

arms so stark 
Strike to the music of Steyermark ! 

In Steyermark, — dear Steyermark, 
Each heart is light as the morning lark ; 
There men are framed in the manly 

mould 
Of their stalwart sires, of the times of 

old, 
And the sunny blue of the Styrian sky 
Grows soft in the timid maiden's eye, 
When love descends with the twilight 

dark, 
In the beechen groves of Steyermark. 

1848. 

TO A BAVARIAN GIRL 

Thotj, Bavaria's brown-eyed daughter, 
Art a shape of joy, 



A BACCHIC ODE 



i5 



Standing by the Isar's water 

With thy brother-boy ; 
In thy dream, with idle fingers 

Threading through his curls, 
On thy cheek the sun's kiss lingers, 

Rosiest of girls ! 

Woods of glossy oak are ringing 

With the echoes bland, 
While thy generous voice is singing 

Songs of Fatherland, — 
Songs, that by the Danube's river 

Sound on hills of vine, 
And where waves in green light quiver, 

Down the rushing Rhine. 

Life, with all its hues and changes, 

To thy heart doth lie 
Like those dreamy Alpine ranges 

In the southern sky ; 
Where in haze the clefts are hidden, 

Which the foot should fear, 
And the crags that fall unbidden 

Startle not the ear. 

Where the village maidens gather 

At the fountain's brim, 
Or in sunny harvest weather, 

With the reapers trim ; 
Where the autumn fires are burning 

On the vintage-hills ; 
Where the mossy wheels are turning 

In the ancient mills ; 

Where from ruined robber -towers 

Hangs the ivy's hair, 
And the crimson foxbell flowers 

On the crumbling stair : — 
Everywhere, without thy presence, 

Would the sunshine fail. 
Fairest of the maiden peasants ! 

Flower of Isar's vale ! 

Munich, 1845. 



IN ITALY 

Deah Lillian, all I wished is won ! 

I sit beneath Italia's sun, 

Where olive-orchards gleam and 

quiver 
Along the banks of Arno's river. 

Through laurel leaves, the dim green 

light 
Falls on my forehead as I write, 



And the sweet chimes of vesper, ring- 
ing, 
Blend with the contadina's singing. 

Rich is the soil with Fancy's gold ; 
The stirring memories of old 
Rise thronging in my haunted vision, 
And wake my spirit's young ambition. 

But as the radiant sunsets close 
Above Val d' Arno's bowers of rose, 
My soul forgets the olden glory, 
And deems our love a dearer story. 

Thy words, in Memory's ear, outchime 
The music of the Tuscan rhyme ; 
Thou standest here — the gentle- 
hearted — 
Amid the shades of bards departed. 

I see before thee fade away 
Their garlands of immortal bay, 
And turn from Petrarch's passion- 
glances 
To my own dearer heart-romances. 

Sad is the opal glow that fires 
The midnight of the cypress spires, 
And cold the scented wind that closes 
The heart of bright Etruscan roses. 

A single thought of thee effaced 
The fair Italian dream I chased ; 
For the true clime of song and sun 
Lies in the heart which mine hath won ! 
Florence, 1845. 



A BACCHIC ODE 

Wine, — bring wine ! 

Let the crystal beaker flame and shine, 

Brimming o'er with the draught divine! 

The crimson glow 

Of the lifted cup on my forehead throw, 

Like the sunset's flush on a field of 



I love to lave 

My thirsty lip in the ruddy wave ; 

Freedom bringeth the wine so brave ! 

The world is cold : 

Sorrow and pain have gloomy hold, 

Chilling the bosom warm and bold. 



i6 



LYRICS 



Doubts and fears 

Veil the shine of my morning years, — 
My life's lone rainbow springs from 
tears. 

But Eden-gleams 
Visit my soul in immortal dreams, 
When the wave of the goblet burns 
and beams. 

Not from the Rhine, 

Not from fields of Burgundian vine, 

Bring me the bright Olympian wine ! 

Not with a ray 

Born where the winds of Shiraz 

play, 
Or the fiery blood of the bright Tokay. 

Not where the glee 

Of Falernian vintage echoes free, 

Or the Chian gardens gem the sea. 

But wine, — bring wine, 

Royally flushed with its growth di- 
vine, 

In the crystal depth of my soul to 
shine ! 

Whose glow was caught 

From the warmth which Fancy's sum- 
mer brought 

To the vintage -fields in the Land of 
Thought. 

Rich and free 

To my thirsting soul will the goblet 

be, 
Poured by the Hebe, Poesy. 

1847. 



A FUNERAL THOUGHT 



When the stern Genius, to whose hol- 
low tramp 
Echo the startled chambers of the 
soul, 

Waves his inverted torch o'er that pale 
camp 
Where the archangel's final trum- 
pets roll, 

I would not meet him in the chamber 
dim, 



Hushed, and pervaded with a name- 
less fear, 
When the breath flutters and the 
senses swim, 

And the dread hour is near. 

ii 

Though Love's dear arms might clasp 
me fondly then 
As if to keep the Summoner at 
bay, 
And woman's woe and the calm grief 
of men 
Hallow at last the chill, unbreathing 
clay — 
These are Earth's fetters, and the soul 
would shrink, 
Thus bound, from Darkness and the 
dread Unknown, 
Stretching its arms from Death's eter- 
nal brink, 
Which it must dare alone. 

in 

But in the awful silence of the sky, 
Upon some mountain summit, yet 
untrod, 
Through the blue ether would I climb, 
to die 
Afar from mortals and alone with 
God! 
To the pure keeping of the stainless 
air 
Would I resign my faint and flutter- 
ing breath, 
And with the rapture of an answered 
prayer 
Receive the kiss of Death. 



Then to the elements my frame would 
turn ; 
No worms should riot on my coffined 
clay, 
But the cold limbs, from that sepul- 
chral urn, 
In the slow storms of ages waste 
away. 
Loud winds and thunder's diapason 
high 
Should be my requiem through the 
coming time, 
And the white summit, fading in the 
sky, 
My monument sublime. 

1847. 



THE CONTINENTS 



r 7 



THE NORSEMAN'S RIDE 

The frosty fires of Northern star- 
light 
Gleamed on the glittering snow, 
And through the forest's frozen 
branches 
The shrieking winds did blow ; 
A floor of blue, translucent marble 

Kept ocean's pulses still, 
When, in the depth of dreary mid- 
night, 
Opened the burial hill. 

Then while a low and creeping shud- 
der 
Thrilled upward through the 
ground, 
The Norseman came, as armed for bat- 
tle, 
In silence from his mound : 
He, who was mourned in solemn sor- 
row 
By many a swordsman bold, 
And harps that wailed along the ocean, 
Struck by the Skalds of old. 

Sudden, a swift and silver shadow 

Rushed up from out the gloom, — 
A horse that stamped with hoof impa- 
tient, 
Yet noiseless, on the tomb. 
11 Ha, Surtur! let me hear thy tramp- 
ing, 
Thou noblest Northern steed, 
Whose neigh along the stormy head- 
lands 
Bade the bold Viking heed ! " 

He mounted : like a north-light streak- 
ing 
The sky with flaming bars, 
They, on the winds so wildly shriek- 
ing, 
Shot up before the stars. 
"Is this thy mane, my fearless Surtur, 

That streams against my breast ? 
Is this thy neck, that curve of moon- 
light, 
Which Helva's hand caressed ? 

" No misty breathing strains thy nos- 
tril, 

Thine eye shines blue and cold, 
Yet, mounting up our airy pathway, 

I see thy hoofs of gold ! 



Not lighter o'er the springing rainbow 

Walhalla's gods repair, 
Than we, in sweeping journey over 

The bending bridge of air. 

"Far, far around, star-gleams are 
sparkling 
Amid the twilight space ; 
And Earth, that lay so cold and dark- 
ling, 
Has veiled her dusky face. 
Are those the Nornes that beckon on- 
ward 
To seats at Odin's board, 
Where nightly by the hands of heroes 
The foaming mead is poured ? 

" 'T is Skuld! her star-eye speaks the 
glory 

That waits the warrior's soul, 
When on its hinge of music opens 

The gatewaj r of the Pole, — 
When Odin's warder leads the hero 

To banquets never done, 
And Freya's eyes outshine in summer 

The ever-risen sun. 

' ' On ! on ! the Northern lights are 
streaming 

In brightness like the morn, 
And pealing far amid the vastness, 

I hear the Gjallarhorn : 
The heart of starry space is throbbing 

With songs of minstrels old, 
And now, on high Walhalla's portal, 

Gleam Surtur's hoofs of gold! " 

1846. 

THE CONTINENTS 

I had a vision in that solemn hour, 

Last of the year sublime, 
Whose wave sweeps downward, with 
its dying power 

Rippling the shores of Time. 
On the bleak margin of that hoary sea 

My spirit stood alone, 
Watching the gleams of phantom His- 
tory, 

Which through the darkness shone. 

Then, when the bell of midnight 

ghostly hands 
Tolled for the dead year's doom, 
I saw the spirits of Earth's ancient 

lands 



i8 



LYRICS 



Stand up amid the gloom ! 
The crowned deities, whose reign be- 
gan 
In the forgotten Past, 
When first the fresh world gave to 
sovereign Man 
Her empires green and vast. 

First queenly Asia, from the fallen 
thrones 
Of twice three thousand years, 
Came with the woe a grieving goddess 
owns, 
Who longs for mortal tears. 
The dust of ruin to her mantle clung 
And dimmed her crown of gold, 
While the majestic sorrows of her 
tongue 
From Tyre to Indus rolled : 

' ' Mourn with me, sisters, in my realm 
of woe, 

Whose only glory streams 
From its lost childhood, like the arctic 
glow 

Which sunless Winter dreams! 
In the red desert moulders Babylon, 

And the wild serpent's hiss 
Echoes in Petra's palaces of stone, 

And waste Persepolis. 

' ' Gone are the deities that ruled en- 
shrined 
In Elephanta's caves. 
And Brahma's wailings fill the fragrant 
wind 
That ripples Ganges' waves : 
The ancient gods amid their temples 
fall, 
And shapes of some near doom, 
Trembling and waving on the Future's 
wall, 
More fearful make my gloom ! " 

Then, from her seat, amid the palms 
embowered 
That shade the lion-land, 
Swart Africa in dusky aspect tow- 
ered, 
The fetters on her hand ! 
Backward she saw, from out her drear 
eclipse, 
The mighty Theban years, 
And the deep anguish of her mournful 
lips 
Interpreted her tears. 



"Woe for my children, whom your 
gyves have bound 
Through centuries of toil ; 
The bitter wailings of whose bondage 
sound 
From many an alien soil ! 
Leave me but free, though the eternal 
sand 
Be all my kingdom now, — 
Though the rude splendors of barbaric 
land 
But mock my crownless brow ! " 

There was a sound, like sudden trum- 
pets blown, 
A ringing, as of arms, 
When Europe rose, a stately amazon, 

Stern in her mailed charms. 
She brooded long beneath the weary 
bars 
That chafed her soul of flame, 
And like a seer, who reads the awful 
stars, 
Her words prophetic came : 

' ' I hear new sounds along the ancient 
shore, 
Whose dull old monotone 
Of tides, that broke on many a system 
hoar, 
Moaned through the ages lone : 
I see a gleaming, like the crimson 
morn 
Beneath a stormy sky, 
And warning throes, which long my 
breast has borne, 
Proclaim the struggle nigh." 

O radiant-browed, the latest born of 
Time! 
How waned thy sisters old, 
Before the splendors of thine eye sub- 
lime, 
And mien erect and bold ! 
Free, as the winds of thine own forests 
are, 
Thy brow beamed lofty cheer, 
And Day's bright oriflamme, the Morn- 
ing Star, 
Flashed on thy lifted spear. 

"I bear no weight " — rang thine ex- 
ulting tones — 

' ' Of memories weird and vast ; 
No crushing heritage of iron thrones, 

Bequeathed by some dead Past ; 



MANUELA 



19 



But hopes, that give my children 

power to climb 

Above the old-world fears — 

Whose prophecies forerun the latest 

time, 

And lead the crowning years ! 

" Like spectral lamps, that burn be- 
fore a tomb, 
The ancient lights expire ; 
I hold a torch, that floods the fading 
gloom 
With everlasting fire: 
Crowned with my constellated stars, I 
stand 
Beside the foaming sea, 
And from the Future, with a victor's 
hand, 
Claim empire for the Free ! " 

1848. 

I/ENVOI 

I 'ye passed the grim and threatening 
warders 

That guard the vestibule of Song, 
And traced the print of bolder footsteps 

The lengthened corridors along ; 
Where every thought I strove to blazon 

Beside the bannered lays of old, 
Was dimbelow some bright escutcheon, 

Or shaded by some grander fold. 



I saw, in veiled and shadowy glimpses, 

The solemn halls expand afar, 
And through the twilight, half de- 
spairing, 

Looked trembling up to find a star ; 
Till, in the rush of wings, awakened 

My soul to utterance free and strong 
And with impassioned exultation, 

I revelled in the rage of Song ! 

Then, though the world beside, un- 
heeding, 

Heard other voices than my own, 
Thou, thou didst mark the broken 
music, 

And cheer its proud, aspiring tone : 
Thou cam'st in many a lovely vision 

To lead my ardent spirit on, 
Thine eye my morning-star of promise, 

The sweet anticipant of dawn. 

And if I look to holier altars, 

Thou still art near me, as of old, 
And thou wilt give the living laurel, 

When the shrined Presence I behold. 
Take, then, these echoes of thy being, 

My lips have weakly striven to 
frame ; 
For when I speak what thou inspir- 
est, 

I know my songs are nearest fame. 

1848. 



CALIFORNIA BALLADS AND POEMS 
1848-1851 



MANUELA 

From the doorway, Manuela, in the 

sunny April morn, 
Southward looks, along the valley, 

over leagues of gleaming corn ; 
Where the mountain's misty rampart 

like the wall of Eden towers, 
And the isles of oak are sleeping on a 

painted sea of flowers. 

All the air is full of music, for the 

winter rains are o'er, 
And the noisy magpies chatter from 

the budding sycamore ; 
Blithely frisk unnumbered squirrels, 

over all the grassy slope ; 



Where the airy summits brighten, 
nimbly leaps the antelope. 

Gentle eyes of Manuela! tell me 

wherefore do ye rest 
On the oak's enchanted islands and 

the flowery ocean's breast ? 
Tell me wherefore, down the valley, 

ye have traced the highway's 

mark 
Far beyond the belts of timber, to the 

mountain-shadows dark ? 

Ah, the fragrant bay may blossom 
and the sprouting verdure shine 

With the tears of amber dropping 
from the tassels of the pine, 



20 



CALIFORNIA BALLADS AND POEMS 



And the morning's breath of balsam 
lightly brush her sunny 
cheek, — 

Little recketh Manuela of the tales of 
Spring they speak. 

When the Summer's burning solstice 
on the mountain - harvests 
glowed, 

She had watched a gallant horseman 
riding down the valley road ; 

Many times she saw him turning, look- 
ing back with parting thrills, 

Till amid her tears she lost him, in 
the shadow of the hills. 

Ere the cloudless moons were over, he 

had passed the Desert's sand, 
Crossed the rushing Colorado and the 

wild Apache Land, 
And his laden mules were driven, 

when the time of rains began, 
With the traders of Chihuahua, to the 

Fair of San Juan. 

Therefore watches Manuela, — there- 
fore lightly doth she start, 

When the sound of distant footsteps 
seems the beating of her heart ; 

Not a wind the green oak rustles or 
the redwood branches stirs, 

But she hears the silver jingle of his 
ringing bit and spurs. 

Often, out the hazy distance, come 

the horsemen, day by day, 
But they come not as Bernardo, — she 

can see it, far away ; 
Well she knows the airy gallop of his 

mettled alazan, 
Light as any antelope upon the Hills 

of Gavilan. 

She would know him 'mid a thousand, 

by his free and gallant air ; 
By the featly-knit sarape, such as 

wealthy traders wear ; 
By his broidered calzoneros and his 

saddle, gayly spread, 
With its cantle rimmed with silver, 

and its horn a lion's head. 

None like him the light riata on the 
maddened bull can throw ; 

None amid the mountain-canons track 
like him the stealthy doe ; 



And at all the Mission festals, few in- 
deed the revellers are 

Who can dance with him the jota, 
touch with him the gay guitar. 

He has said to Manuela, and the 

echoes linger still 
In the cloisters of her bosom, with a 

secret, tender thrill, 
When the bay again has blossomed, 

and the valley stands in corn, 
Shall the bells of Santa Clara usher in 

the wedding morn. 

He has pictured the procession, all 

in holiday attire, 
And the laugh of bridal gladness, 

when they see the distant spire ; 
Then their love shall .kindle newly, 

and the world be doubly fair 
In the cool, delicious crystal of the 

summer morning air. 

Tender eyes of Manuela ! what has 

dimmed your lustrous beam ? 
'T is a tear that falls to glitter on the 

casket of her dream. 
Ah, the eye of Love must brighten, if 

its watches would be true, 
For the star is falsely mirrored in the 

rose's drop of dew! 

But her eager eyes rekindle, and her 
breathless bosom thrills, 

As she sees a horseman moving in the 
shadow of the hills : 

Now in love and fond thanksgiving 
they may loose their pearly 
tides, — 

'T is the alazan that gallops, 't is Ber- 
nardo's self that rides ! 

Gvlf of Mexico, 1850. 

THE FIGHT OF PASO DEL MAR 

Gusty and raw was the morning, 

A fog hung over the seas, 
And its gray skirts, rolling inland, 

Were torn by the mountain trees ; 
No sound was heard but the dashing 

Of waves on the sandy bar, 
When Pablo of San Diego 

Rode down to the Paso del Mar. 

The pescador, out in his shallop, 
Gathering his harvest so wide, 



THE PINE FOREST OF MONTEREY 



21 



Sees the dim bulk of the headland 

Loom over the waste of the tide ; 
He sees, like a white thread, the path- 
way 
Wind round on the terrible wall, 
Where the faint, moving speck of the 
rider 
Seems hovering close to its fall. 

Stout Pablo of San Diego 

Rode down from the hills behind ; 
With the bells on his gray mule 
tinkling 

He sang through the fog and wind. 
Under his thick, misted eyebrows 

Twinkled his eye like a star, 
And fiercer he sang as the sea-winds 

Drove cold on the Paso del Mar. 

Now Bernal, the herdsman of Chino, 

Had travelled the shore since dawn, 
Leaving the ranches behind him — 

Good reason had he to be gone ! 
The blood was still red on his dagger, 

The fury was hot in his brain, 
And the chill, driving scud of the 
breakers 

Beat thick on his forehead in vain. 

With his poncho wrapped gloomily 
round him, 
He mounted the dizzying road, 
And the chasms and steeps of the 
headland 
Were slippery and wet, as he 'trod : 
Wild swept the wind of the ocean, 

Rolling the fog from afar, 
When near him a mule-bell came 
tinkling, 
Midway ontke Paso del Mar. 

"Back ! " shouted Bernal, full fiercely, 
And "Back!" shouted Pablo, in 
wrath, 
As his mule halted, startled and shrink- 
ing, 
On the perilous line of the path. 
The roar of devouring surges 
Came up from the breakers' hoarse 
war ; 
And "Back, or you perish!" cried 
Bernal, 
' ' I turn not on Paso del Mar ! " 

The gray mule stood firm as the head- 
land : 



He clutched at the jingling rein, 
When Pablo rose up iu his saddle 

And smote till he dropped it again. 
A wild oath of passion swore Bernal, 
And brandished his dagger, still red, 
While fiercely stout Pablo leaned for- 
ward, 
And fought o'er his trusty mule's 
head. 

They fought till the black wall below 
them 
Shone red through the misty blast ; 
Stout Pablo then struck, leaning 
farther, 
The broad breast of Bernal at last. 
And, frenzied with pain, the swart 
herdsman 
Closed on him with terrible strength, 
And jerked him, despite of his strug- 
gles, 
Down from the saddle at length. 

They grappled with desperate mad- 
ness, 

On the slippery edge of the wall ; 
They swayed on the brink, and to- 
gether 

Reeled out to the rush of the fall. 
A cry of the wildest death-anguish 

Rang faint through the mist afar, 
And the riderless mule went homeward 

From the fight of the Paso del Mar. 

1848. 

THE PINE FOREST OF 
MONTEREY 

What point of Time, unchronicled, 

and dim 
As yon gray mist that canopies your 

heads, 
Took from the greedy wave and gave 

the sun 
Your dwelling-place, ye gaunt and 

hoary Pines ? 
When, from the barren bosoms of the 

hills, 
With scanty nurture, did ye slowly 

climb, 
Of these remote and latest-fashioned 

shores 
The first-born forest ? Titans gnarled 

and rough, 
Such as from out subsiding Chaos 

grew 



22 



CALIFORNIA BALLADS AND POEMS 



To clothe the cold loins of the savage 
earth, 

What fresh commixture of the ele- 
ments, 

What earliest thrill of life, the stub- 
born soil 

Slow-mastering, engendered ye to give 

The hills a mantle and the wind a 
voice ? 

Along the shore ye lift your rugged 
arms, 

Blackened with many fires, and with 
hoarse chant, — 

Unlike the fibrous lute your co-mates 
touch 

In elder regions, — fill the awful stops 

Between the crashing cataracts of the 
surf. 

Have ye no tongue, in all your sea of 
sound, 

To syllable the secret, — no still voice 

To give your airy myths a shadowy 
form, 

And make us of lost centuries of 
lore 

The rich inheritors ? 

The sea-winds pluck 
Your mossy beards, and gathering as 

they sweep, 
Vex your high heads, and with your 

sinewy arms 
Grapple and toil in vain. A deeper 

roar, 
Sullen and cold, and rousing into 

spells 
Of stormy volume, is your sole reply. 
Anchored in firm-set rock, ye ride 

the blast, 
And from the promontory's utmost 

verge 
Make signal o'er the waters. So ye 

stood, 
When, like a star, behind the lonely 

sea, 
Far shone the white speck of Grijalva's 

sail; 
And when, through driving fog, the 

breaker's sound 
Frighted Otondo's men, your spicy 

breath 
Played as in welcome round their rusty 

helms, 
And backward from its staff shook 

out the folds 
Of Spain's emblazoned banner. 



Ancient Pines, 
Ye bear no record of the years of man. 
Spring is your sole historian, — Spring, 

that paints 
These savage shores with hues of 

Paradise, 
That decks your branches with a 

fresher green, 
And through your lonely, far cafiadas 

pours 
Her floods of bloom, rivers of opal dye 
That wander down to lakes and widen- 
ing seas 
Of blossom and of fragrance, — laugh- 
ing Spring, 
That with her wanton blood refills 

your veins, 
And weds ye to your juicy youth 

again 
With a new ring, the while your rifted 

bark 
Drops odorous tears. Your knotty 

fibres yield 
To the light touch of her unfailing 

pen, 
As freely as the lupin's violet cup. 
Ye keep, close-locked, the memories 

of her stay 
As in their shells the avelones keep 
Morn's rosy flush and moonlight's 

pearly glow. 
The wild northwest, that from Alaska 

sweeps, 
To drown Point Lobos with the icy 

scud 
And white sea-foam, may rend your 

boughs and leave 
Their blasted antlers tossing in the 

gale; 
Your steadfast hearts are mailed 

against the shock, 
And on their annual tablets naught 

inscribe 
Of such rude visitation. Ye are still 
The simple children of a guiltless soil, 
And in your natures show the sturdy 

grain 
That passion cannot jar, nor force re- 
lax, 
Nor aught but sweet and kindly airs 

compel 
To gentler mood. No disappointed 

heart 
Has sighed its bitterness beneath your 

shade ; 
No angry spirit ever came to make 



EL CANELO 



23 






Your silence its confessional ; no voice, 

Grown harsh in Crime's great market- 
place, the world, 

Tainted with blasphemy your evening 
hush 

And aromatic air. The deer alone, — 

The ambushed hunter that brings 
down the deer, — 

The fisher wandering on the misty 
shore 

To watch sea-lions wallow in the 
flood, — 

The shout, the sound of hoofs that 
chase and fly, 

When swift vaqueros, dashing through 
the herds, 

Ride down the angry bull, — per- 
chance, the song 

Some Indian heired of long -forgot ten 
sires, — 

Disturb your solemn chorus. 

Stately Pines, 
But few more years around the prom- 
ontory 
Your chant will meet the thunders of 

the sea. 
No more, a barrier to the encroaching 

sand, 
Against the surf ye '11 stretch defiant 

arm, 
Though with its onset and besieging 

shock 
Your firm knees tremble. Never more 

the wind 
Shall pipe shrill music through your 

mossy beards, 
Nor sunset's yellow blaze athwart 

your heads 
Crown all the hills with gold. Your 

race is past : 
The mystic cycle, whose unnoted birth 
Coeval was with yours, has run its 

sands, 
And other footsteps from these chang- 
ing shores 
Frighten its haunting Spirit. Men 

will come 
To vex your quiet with the din of 

toil ; 
The smoky volumes of the forge will 

stain 
This pure, sweet air ; loud keels will 

ride the sea, 
Dashing its glittering sapphire into 

foam : 



Through all her green canadas Spring 

will seek 
Her lavish blooms in vain, and clasp- 
ing ye, 
O mournful Pines, within her glowing 

arms, 
Will weep soft rains to find ye fallen 

low. 
Fall, therefore, yielding to the fiat 1 

Fall, 
Ere the maturing soil, whose first dull 

life 
Fed your belated germs, be rent and 

seamed ! 
Fall, like the chiefs ye sheltered, 

stern, unbent, 
Your gray beards hiding memorable 

scars ! 
The winds will mourn ye, and the bar- 
ren hills 
Whose breast ye clothed ; and when 

the pauses come 
Between the crashing cataracts of the 

surf, 
A funeral silence, terrible, profound, 
Will make sad answer to the listening 

sea. 

Monterey, 1849. 

EL CANELO 



Now saddle El Canelo ! — the fresh- 
ening wind of morn, 

Down in the flowery vega, is stirring 
through the corn ; 

The thin smoke of the ranches grows 
red with coming day, 

And the steed is fiercely stamping, in 
haste to be away. 

11 

My glossy-limbed Canelo, thy neck is 

curved in pride, 
Thy slender ears pricked forward, thy 

nostril straining wide ; 
And as thy quick neigh greets me, and 

I catch thee by the mane, 
I'm off with the winds of morning, — 

the chieftain of the plain ! 

in 
I feel the swift air whirring, and see 

along our track, 
From the flinty-paved sierra, the 

sparks go streaming back ; 



24 



CALIFORNIA BALLADS AND POEMS 



And I clutch my rifle closer, as we 

sweep the dark defile, 
Where the red guerillas ambush for 

many a lonely mile. 

IV 

They reach not El Canelo ; with the 

swiftness of a dream 
"We 've passed the bleak Nevada, and 

San Fernando's stream ; 
But where, on sweeping gallop, my 

bullet backward sped, 
The keen-eyed mountain vultures will 

wheel above the dead. 



On! on, my brave Canelo! we've 

dashed the sand and snow 
From peaks upholding heaven, from 

deserts far below, — 
We've thundered through the forest, 

while the crackling branches 

rang, 
And trooping elks, affrighted, from 

lair and covert sprang. 

VI 

We 've swum the swollen torrent, — 

we 've distanced in the race 
The baying wolves of Pinos, that 

panted with the chase ; 
And still thy mane streams backward, 

at every thrilling bound, 
And still thy measured hoof -stroke 

beats with its morning sound ! 

VII 

The seaward winds are wailing 
through Santa Barbara's pines, 

And like a sheathless sabre, the far 
Pacific shines ; 

Hold to thy speed, my arrow! at 
nightfall thou shalt lave 

Thy hot and smoking haunches be- 
neath his silver wave ! 



My head upon thy shoulder, along the 

sloping sand 
We '11 sleep as trusty brothers, from 

out the mountain land ; 
The pines will sound in answer to the 

surges on the shore, 
And in our dreams, Canelo, we'll 

make the journey o'er. 

1848. 



THE SUMMER CAMP 

Here slacken rein ; here let the dusty 

mules 
Unsaddled graze! The shadows of 

the oaks 
Are on our brows, and through their 

knotted boles 
We see the blue round of the bound- 
less plain 
Vanish in glimmering heat: these 

aged oaks, 
The island speck that beckoned us afar 
Over the burning level, — as we came, 
Spreading to shore and cape, and 

bays that ran 
To leafy headlands, balanced on the 

haze, 
Faint and receding as a cloud in air. 

The mules may roam unsaddled : we 

will lie 
Beneath the mighty trees, whose 

shade like dew 
Poured from the urns of Twilight, 

dries the sweat 
Of sunburnt brows, and on the heavy 

lid 
And heated eyeball sheds a balm, than 

sleep 
Far sweeter. We have done with 

travel, — we 
Are weary now, who never dreamed 

of Rest, 
For until now did never Rest unbar 
Her palace-doors, nor until now our 

ears 
The silence drink, beyond all melodies 
Of all imagined sound, that wraps her 

realm. 
Here, where the desolating centuries 
Have left no mark; where noises 

never came 
From the far world of battle and of 

toil ; 
Where God looks down and sends no 

thunderbolt 
To smite a human wrong, for all is 



She finds a refuge. We will dwell 
with her. 

No more of travel, where the flaming 

sword 
Of the great sun divides the heavens ; 

no more 






THE SUMMER CAMP 



2 5 



Of climbing over jutty steeps that 

swim 
In driving sea-mist, where the stunted 

tree 
Slants inland, mimicking the stress 

of winds 
When wind is none ; of plain and 

steaming marsh 
Where the dry bulrush crackles in the 

heat ; 
Of camps by starlight in the columned 

vault 
Of sycamores, and the red, dancing 

fires 
That build a leafy arch, efface and 

build, 
And sink at last, to let the stars peep 

through ; 
Of canons grown with pine and folded 

deep 
In golden mountain- sides ; of airy 

sweeps 
Of mighty landscape, lying all alone 
Like some deserted world. They 

tempt no more. 
It is enough that such things were : 

too blest, 
O comrades mine, to lie in Summer's 

arms, 
Lodged in her Camp of Rest, we will 

not dream 
That they may vex us more. 

The sun goes down : 
The dun mules wander idly : motion- 
less 
Beneath the stars, the heavy foliage 

lifts 
Its rich, round masses, silent as a 

cloud 
That sleeps at midday on a mountain 

peak. 
All through the long, delicious night 

no stir 
Is in the leaves ; spangled with broken 

gleams, 
Before the pining Moon, — that fain 

would drop 
Into the lap of this deep quiet, — 

swerve 
Eastward the shadows: Day comes 

on again. 
Where is the life we led? Whither 

hath fled 
The turbulent stream that brought us 

hither? How, 



So full of sound, so lately dancing 

down 
The mountains, turbid, fretted into 

foam, — 
How has it slipped, with scarce a 

gurgling coil, 
Into this calm transparence, noise or 

wind 
Hath ruffled never ? Ages past, per- 
chance, 
Such wild turmoil was ours, or did 

some Dream 
Malign, that last night nestled in the 

oak, 
Whisper our ears, when not a star 

could see? 
Give o'er the fruitless doubt : we will 

not waste 
One thought of rest, nor spill one 

radiant drop 
From the full goblet of this summer 

balm. 

Day after day the mellow sun slides 

o'er, 
Night after night the mellow moon. 

The clouds 
Are laid, enchanted : soft and bare, 

the heavens 
Fold to their breast the dozing Earth 

that lies 
In languor of deep bliss. At times a 

breath, 
Remnant of gales far off, forgotten 

now, 
Rustles the never-fading leaves, then 

drops 
Affrighted into silence. Near a slough 
Of dark, still water, in the early morn 
The shy coyotas prowl, or trooping 

elk 
From the close covert of the bulrush 

fields 
Their dewy antlers toss: nor other 

sight, 
Save when the falcon, poised on 

wheeling wings, 
His bright eye on the burrowing 

coney, cuts 
His arrowy plunge. Along the dis- 
tant trail, 
Dim with the heat, sometimes the 

miners go, 
Bearded and rough, the swart Sono- 

rians drive 
Their laden asses, or vaqueros whirl 



26 



CALIFORNIA BALLADS AND POEMS 



The lasso's coil and carol many a 

song, 
Native to Spanish hills. As when we 

lie 
On the soft brink of Sleep, not pil- 
lowed quite 
To blest forgetf ulness, some dim array 
Of masking forms in long procession 

comes, 
A sweet disturbance to the poppied 

sense, 
That will not cease, but gently holds 

it back 
From slumber's haven, so their figures 

pass, 
With such disturbance cloud the 

bless&d calm, 
And hold our beings, ready to slip 

forth 
O'er unmolested seas, still rocking near 
The coasts of Action. 

Other dreams are ours, 

Of shocks that were, or seemed ; where- 
of our souls 

Feel the subsiding lapse, as feels the 
sand 

Of tropic island-shores the dying pulse 

Of storms that racked the Northern 
sea. My Soul, 

I do believe that thou hast toiled and 
striven, 

And hoped and suffered wrong. I do 
believe 

Great aims were thine, deep loves and 
fiery hates, 

And though I may have lain a thou- 
sand years 

Beneath these Oaks, the baffled trust 
of Youth, 

Thy first keen sorrow, brings a gentle 
pang 

To temper joy. Nor will the joy I 
drank 

To wild intoxication, quit my heart : 

It was no dream that still has power 
to droop 

The soft-suffusing lid, and lift de- 
sire 

Beyond this rapt repose. No dream, 
dear love ! 

For thou art with me in our Camp of 
Peace. 

O Friend, whose history is writ in 
deeds 



That make your life a marvel, come 

no gleams 
Of past adventure, echoes of old 

storms, 
And Battle's tingling hum of flying 

shot, 
To touch your easy blood and tempt 

you o'er 
The round of yon blue plain ? Or 

have they lost, 
Heroic days, the virtue which the 

heart 
That did their hest rejoicing, proved 

so high ? 
Back through the long, long cycles of 

our rest 
Your memory travels : through this 

hush you hear 
The Gila's dashing, feel the yawning 

jaws 
Of black volcanic gorges close you 

in 
On waste and awful tracts of wilder- 
ness, 
Which other than the eagle's cry, or 

bleat 
Of mountain -goat, hear not : the 

scorching sand 
Eddies around the tracks your fainting 

mules 
Leave in the desert : thorn and cactus 

pierce 
Your bleeding limbs, and stiff' with 

raging thirst 
Your tongue forgets its office. Leave 

untried 
That cruel trail, and leave the wintry 

hills 
And leave the tossing sea ! The Sum- 
mer here 
Builds us a tent of everlasting calm. 

How shall we wholly sink our lives in 

thee, 
Thrice-blessed Deep ? O many-na- 

tured Soul, 
Chameleon-like, that, steeped in every 

phase 
Of wide existence, tak'st the hue of 

each, 
Here with the silent Oaks and azure 

Air 
Incorporate grow! Here loosen one 

by one 
Thy vexing memories, burdens of the 

Past, 



THE BISON TRACK 



27 



Till all unrest be laid, and strong De- 
sire 
Sleeps on his nerveless arm. Content 

to find 
In liberal Peace thy being's high result 
And crown of aspiration, gather all 
The dreams of sense, the reachings of 

the mind 
For ampler issues and dominion vain, 
To fold them on her bosom, happier 

there 
Than in exultant action : as a child 
Forgets his meadow butterflies and 

flowers, 
Upon his mother's breast. 

It may not be. 
Not in this Camp, in these enchanted 

Trees, 
But in ourselves, must lodge the calm 

we seek, 
Ere we can fix it here. We cannot 

take 
From outward nature power to snap 

the curse 
Which clothed our birth ; and though 

't were easier 
This hour to die than yield the blessed 

cup 
Wherefrom our hearts divinest com- 
fort draw, 
It clothes us yet, and yet shall drive 

us forth 
To breast the world. Then come : we 

will not bide 
To tempt a ruin to this paradise, 
Fulfilling Destiny. A mighty wind 
Would gather on the plain, a cloud 

arise 
To blot the sky, with thunder in its 

heart, 
And the black column of the whirl- 
wind spin 
Out of the cloud, straight downward 

to this grove, 
Take by their heads the shuddering 

trees, and wrench 
With fearful clamor, limb from limb, 

till Rest 
Should flee forever. Rather set at 

once 
Our faces towards the noisy world 

again, 
And gird our loins for action. Let us 

go! 

1851. 



THE BISON TRACK 



Strike the tent! the sun has risen; 

not a vapor streaks the dawn, 
And the frosted prairie brightens to 

the westward, far and wan : 
Prime afresh the trusty rifle, — 

sharpen well the hunting 

spear — 
For the frozen sod is trembling, and 

a noise of hoofs I hear ! 



Fiercely stamp the tethered horses, as 

they snuff the morning's fire ; 
Their impatient heads are tossing, and 

they neigh with keen desire. 
Strike the tent ! the saddles wait 

us, — let the bridle-reins be 

slack, 
For the prairie's distant thunder has 

betrayed the bison's track. 



See ! a dusky line approaches : hark, 

the onward-surging roar, 
Like the din of wintry breakers on a 

sounding wall of shore ! 
Dust and sand behind them whirling, 

snort the foremost of the van, 
And their stubborn horns are clashing 

through the crowded caravan. 

IV 

Now the storm is down upon us : let 

the maddened horses go ! 
We shall ride the living whirlwind, 

though a hundred leagues it 

blow! 
Though the cloudy manes should 

thicken, and the red eyes' angry 

glare 
Lighten round us as we gallop through 

the sand and rushing air ! 



Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in 

our wild, resistless race, 
And a sound, like mighty waters, 

thunder down the desert space : 
Yet the rein may not be tightened, 

nor the rider's eye look back — 
Death to him whose speed should 

slacken, on the maddened 

bison's track! 



28 



ROMANCES 



Now the trampling herds are threaded, 

and the chase is close and 

warm 
For the giant bull that gallops in the 

edges of the storm : 
Swiftly hurl the whizzing lasso, — 

swing your rifles as we run : 
See ! the dust is red behind him, — 

shout, my comrades, he is 

won! 



Look not on him as he staggers, — 't is 

the last shot he will need ! 
More shall fall, among his fellows, ere 

we run the mad stampede, — 
Ere we stem the brinded breakers, 

while the wolves, a hungry 

pack, 
Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, 

on the bloody Bison Track ! 

1848. 



ROMANCES 

1849-185 i 



MON-DA-MIN 



OR, THE ROMANCE OF MAIZE 



Long ere the shores of green America 
"Were touched by men of Norse and 

Saxon blood, 
What time the Continent in silence 

lay, 
A solemn realm of forest and of flood, 
Where Nature wantoned wild in zones 

immense, 
Unconscious of her own magnificence; 



Then to the savage race, who knew 
no world 

Beyond the hunter's lodge, the coun- 
cil-fire, 

The clouds of grosser sense were 
sometimes furled, 

And spirits came to answer their de- 
sire, — 

The spirits of the race, grotesque and 
shy; 

Exaggerated powers of earth and sky. 



For Gods resemble whom they gov- 
ern : they, 

The fathers of the soil, may not out- 
grow 

The children's vision. In that earlier 
day, 

They stooped the race familiarly to 
know; 



From Heaven's blue prairies they de- 
scended then, 

And took the shapes and shared the 
lives of men. 



A chief there was, who in the frequent 
stress 

Of want, yet in contentment, lived his 
days ; 

His lodge was built within the wilder- 
ness 

Of Huron, clasping those transparent 
bays, 

Those deeps of unimagined crystal, 
where 

The bark canoe seems hung in middle 
air. 



There, from the lake and from the 

uncertain chase 
With patient heart his sustenance he 

drew ; 
And he was glad to see, in that wild 

place, 
The sons and daughters that around 

him grew, 
Although more scant they made his 

scanty store, 
And in the winter moons his need was 

sore. 



The eldest was a boy, a silent lad, 
Who wore a look of wisdom from his 
birth ; 



MON-DA-MIN 



29 



Such beauty, both of form and face, 

he had, 
As until then was never known on 

earth : 
And so he was (his soul so bright and 

far!) 
Osseo named, — Son of the Evening 

Star. 

VII 

This boy by nature was companion- 
less : 

His soul drew nurture only when it 
sucked 

The savage dugs of Fable ; he could 
guess 

The knowledge other minds but slowly 
plucked 

From out the heart of things ; to him, 
as well 

As to his Gods, all things were possi- 
ble. 



The heroes of that shapeless faith of 

his 
Took life from him : when gusts of 

powdery snow 
Whirled round the lodge, he saw 

Paup-puckewiss 
Floundering amid the drifts, and he 

would go 
Climbing the hills, while sunset faded 

wan, 
To seek the feathers of the Rosy Swan. 

IX 

He knew the lord of serpent and of 
beast, 

The crafty Incarnation of the North ; 

He knew, when airs grew warm and 
buds increased, 

The sky was pierced, the Summer is- 
sued forth, 

And when a cloud concealed some 
mountain's crest 

The Bird of Thunder brooded on his 
nest. 



Through Huron's mists he saw the 

enchanted boat 
Of old Mishosha to his island go, 
And oft he watched, if on the waves 

might float, 
As once, the Fiery Plume of Wassamo ; 



And when the moonrise flooded coast 

and bay, 
He climbed the headland, stretching 

far away ; 

XI 

For there — so ran the legend — 
nightly came 

The small Puck-wudjees, ignorant of 
harm : 

The friends of Man, in many a spor- 
tive game 

The nimble elves consoled them for 
the charm 

Which kept them exiled from their 
homes afar, — 

The silver lodges of a twilight star. 



So grew Osseo, as a lonely pine, 
That knows the secret of the wander- 
ing breeze, 
And ever sings its canticles divine, 
Uncomprehended by the other trees : 
And now the time drew nigh, when 

he began 
The solemn fast whose issue proves 
the man. 

XIII 

His father built a lodge the wood 
within, 

Where he the appointed space should 
duly bide, 

Till such propitious time as he had 
been 

By faith prepared, by fasting puri- 
fied, 

And in mysterious dreams allowed to 
see 

What God the guardian of his life 
would be. 

XIV 

The anxious crisis of the Spring was 
past, 

And warmth was master o'er the lin- 
gering cold. 

The alder's catkins dropped ; the 
maple cast 

His crimson bloom, the willow's 
downy gold 

Blew wide, and softer than a squirrel's 
ear 

The white oak's foxy leaves began 
appear. 



3° 



ROMANCES 



There was a motion in the soil. A 

sound 
Lighter than falling seeds, shook out 

of flowers, 
Exhaled where dead leaves, sodden on 

the ground, 
Repressed the eager grass; and there 

for hours 
Osseo lay, and vainly strove to bring 
Into his mind the miracle of Spring. 

XVI 

The wood-birds knew it, and their 
voices rang 

Around his lodge ; with many a dart 
and whir 

Of saucy joy, the shrewish catbird 
sang 

Full-throated, and he heard the king- 
fisher, 

Who from his God escaped with rum- 
pled crest, 

And the white medal hanging on his 
breast. 

XVII 

The aquilegia sprinkled on the 
rocks 

A scarlet rain ; the yellow violet 

Sat in the chariot of its leaves ; the 
phlox 

Held spikes of purple flame in mea- 
dows wet, 

And all the streams with vernal- 
scented reed 

Were fringed, and streaky bells of 
miskodeed. 

XVIII 

The boy went musing : What are 

these, that burst 
The sod and grow, without the aid of 

man? 
What father brought them food ? 

what mother nursed 
Them in her earthy lodge, till Spring 

began ? 
They cannot speak ; they move but 

with the air; 
Yet souls of evil or of good they 

bear. 



How are they made, that some with 
wholesome juice 



Delight the tongue, and some are 
charged with death ? 

If spirits them inhabit, they can loose 

Their shape sometimes, and talk with 
human breath : 

Would that in dreams one such would 
come to me, 

And thence my teacher and my guar- 
dian be ! 



So, when more languid with his fast, 

the boy 
Kept to his lodge, he pondered much 

thereon, 
And other memories gave his mind 

employ ; 
Memories of winters when the moose 

were gone, — 
When tales of Manabozo failed to melt 
The hunger-pang his pining brothers 

felt. 



He thought : The Mighty Spirit knows 
all things, 

Is master over all. Could He not 
choose 

Design his children food to ease the 
stings 

Of hunger, when the lake and wood 
refuse ? 

If He will bless me with the know- 
ledge, I 

Will for my brothers fast until I die. 

XXII 

Four days were sped since he had 

tasted meat ; 
Too faint he was to wander any more, 
When from the open sky, that, blue 

and sweet, 
Looked in upon him through the 

lodge's door, 
With quiet gladness he beheld a fair 
Celestial Shape descending through 

the air. 

XXIII 

He fell serenely, as a winged seed 
Detached in summer from the maple 

bough ; 
His glittering clothes unruffled by the 

speed, 
The tufted plumes unshaken on his 

brow: 



MON-DA-MIN 



3i 



Bright, wonderful, he came without a 

sound, 
And like a burst of sunshine struck 



XXIV 

So light he stood, so tall and straight 

of limb, 
So fair the heavenly freshness of his 

face, 
With beating heart Osseo looked at 

him, 
For now a God had visited the place. 
More brave a God his dreams had never 

seen : 
The stranger's garments were a shining 

green. 

XXV 

Sheathing his limbs in many a stately 

fold, 
That, parting on his breast, allowed 

the eye 
To note beneath, his vest of scaly 

gold, 
Whereon the drops of slaughter, 

scarcely dry, 
Disclosed their blushing stain : his 

shoulders fair 
Gave to the wind long tufts of silky 

hair. 

XXVI 

The plumy crest, that high and beauti- 
ful 

Above his head its branching tassels 
hung, 

Shook down a golden dust, while, fix- 
ing full 

His eyes upon the boy, he loosed his 
tongue. 

Deep in his soul Osseo did rejoice 

To hear the reedy music of his voice : 

XXVII 

" By the Great Spirit I am hither sent, 
He knows the wishes whereupon you 

feed, — 
The soul, that, on your brothers' good 

intent, 
Would sink ambition to relieve their 

need : 
This thing is grateful to the Master's 

eye, 
Nor will His wisdom what you seek 

deny. 



XXVIII 

' ' But blessings are not free ; they do 

not fall 
In listless hands ; by toil the soul 

must prove 
Its steadfast purpose master over all, 
Before their wings in pomp of coming 

move : 
Here, wrestling with me, must you 

overcome, 
In me, the secret, — else, my lips are 

dumb." 

XXIX 

No match for his, Osseo' s limbs ap- 
peared, 

Weak with the fast ; and yet in soul 
he grew 

Composed and resolute, by accents 
cheered, 

That spake in light what he but darkly 
knew. 

He rose, unto the issue nerved ; he 
sent 

Into his arms the hope of the event. 

XXX 

The shining stranger wrestled long 
and hard, 

When, disengaging weary limbs, he 
said : 

' ' It is enough ; with no unkind regard 

The Master's eye your toil hath vis- 
ited. 

He bids me cease ; to-day let strife re- 
main; 

But on the morrow I will come again." 

XXXI 

And on the morrow came he as be- 
fore, 

Dropping serenely down the deep- 
blue air : 

More weak and languid was the boy, 
yet more 

Courageous he, that crowning test to 
bear. 

His soul so wrought in every fainting 
limb, 

It seemed the cruel fast had strength- 
ened him. 

XXXII 

Again they grappled, and their sin- 
ews wrung . 
In desperate emulation ; and again 



32 



ROMANCES 

from the 
scaled 



Came words of comfort 

stranger's tongue 
When they had ceased. He 

the heavenly plain, 
His tall, bright stature lessening as 

he rose, 
Till lost amid the infinite repose. 

XXXIII 

On the third day descending as be- 
fore 

His raiment's gleam surprised the 
silent sky ; 

And weaker still the poor boy felt, 
yet more 

Courageous he, and resolute to die, 

So he might first the promised good 
embrace, 

And leave a blessing unto all his 
race. 

xxxiv 
This time with intertwining limbs 

they strove ; 
The God's green mantle shook in 

every fold, 
And o'er Osseo's heated forehead drove 
His silky hair, his tassel's dusty gold, 
Till, spent and breathless, he at last 

forbore, 
And sat to rest beside the lodge's 

door. 

xxxv 
" My friend," he said, "the issue now 

is plain ; 
Who wrestles in his soul must victor 

be; 
Who bids his life in payment shall 

attain 
The end he seeks, — and you will 

vanquish me. 
Then, these commands fulfilling, you 

shall win 
What the Great Spirit gives in Mon- 

da-Min. 

xxxvi 

"When I am dead, strip off this green 
array, 

And pluck the tassels from my shriv- 
elled hair ; 

Then bury me where summer rains 
shall play 

Above my breast, and sunshine linger 
there. 



Kemove the matted sod ; for I would 

have 
The earth lie lightly, softly on my 

grave. 



XXXVII 

"And tend the place, lest any nox- 
ious weed 

Through the sweet soil should strike 
its bitter root ; 

Nor let the blossoms of the forest 
breed, 

Nor the wild grass in green luxuri- 
ance shoot ; 

But when the earth is dry and blis- 
tered, fold 

Thereon the fresh and dainty-smelling 
mould. 

XXXVIII 

"The clamoring crow, the blackbird 

swarms that make 
The meadow trees their hive, must 

come not near : 
Scare thence all hurtful things ; nor 

quite forsake 
Your careful watch until the woods 

appear 
With crimson blotches deeply dashed 

and crossed, — 
Sign of the fatal pestilence of Frost. 

XXXIX 

"This done, the secret, into know- 
ledge grown, 

Is yours forevermore." With that, he 
took 

The yielding air. Osseo, left alone, 

Followed his flight with hope-enrap- 
tured look. 

The pains of hunger fled ; a happy 
flame 

Danced in his heart until the trial 
came. 

XL 

It happened so, as Mon-da-Min fore- 
told ; 
Osseo's soul, at every wreathing twist 
Of palpitating muscle, grew more 

bold, 
And from the limbs of his antago- 
nist 
Celestial vigor to his own he drew, 
Till with one mighty heave he over- 
threw. 



MON-DA-MIN 



33 



XLI 

Then from the body, beautiful and 

cold, 
He stripped the shining clothes ; but 

on his breast 
He left the vest, engraiDed with 

blushing gold, 
And covered him in decent burial-rest. 
At sunset to his father's lodge he 

passed, 
And soothed with meat the anguish 

of his fast. 



Naught did he speak of all that he 
had done, 

But day by day in secrecy he sought 

An opening in the forest, where the 
sun 

"Warmed the new grave: so tenderly 
he wrought, 

So lightiv heaped the mould, so care- 
~ fully 

Kept all the place from choking herb- 
age free, 

XLTII 

That in a little while a folded plume 
Pushed timidly the covering soil aside, 
And, fed by fattening rains, took 

broader room, 
Until it grew a stalk, and rustled wide 
Its leafy garments, lifting in the air 
Its tasselled top, and knots of silky 

hair. 

XLIV 

Osseo marvelled to behold his friend 

In this fair plant ; the secret of the 
Spring 

Was his at length ; and till the Sum- 
mer's end 

He guarded him from every harmful 
thing. 

He scared the cloud of blackbirds, 
wheeling low ; 

His arrow pierced the reconnoitring 
crow. 



mornings, 



XLV 

Now came the brilliant 

kindling all 
The woody hills witli pinnacles of fire ; 
The turn's ensanguined leaves began 

to fall, 
The buckeye blazed in prodigal attire, 



And frosty vapors left the lake at 
night 

To string the prairie grass with span- 
gles white. 

XL VI 

One day, from long and unsuccessful 
chase 

The chief returned. Osseo through 
the wood 

In silence led him to the guarded 
place, 

Where now the plant in golden ripe- 
ness stood. 

"Behold, my father !" he exclaimed, 
' ' our friend, 

Whom the Great Spirit unto me did 
send, 

XLVII 

' ' Then, when I fasted, and my prayer 
He knew, 

That He would save my brothers from 
their want ; 

For this, His messenger I over- 
threw, 

And from his grave was born this glo- 
rious plant. 

'T is Mon-da-Min : his sheathing husks 
enclose 

Food for my brothers in the time of 
snows. 

XL VIII 

' ' I leave you now, my father ! Here 
befits 

Me longer not to dwell. My pathway 
lies 

To where the West- wind on the moun- 
tain sits, 

And the Red Swan beyond the sunset 
flies: 

There may superior wisdom be in 
store. " 

And so he went, and he returned no 
more. 

XLIX 

But Mon-da-Min remained, and still re- 
mains ; 

His children cover all the boundless 
land, 

And the warm sun and frequent mel- 
low rains 

Shape the tall stalks and make the 
leaves expand. 



34 



A mighty army they have grown 

drills 
Their green battalions on the summer 

hills. 



And when the silky hair hangs crisp 

and dead, 
Then leave their rustling ranks the 

tasselled peers, 
In broad encampment pitch their tents 

instead, 
And garner up the ripe autumnal ears : 
The annual storehouse of a nation's 

need, 
From whose abundance all the world 

may feed. 
1851. 

HYLAS 

Storm-wearied Argo slept upon the 

water. 
No cloud was seen ; on blue and craggy 

Ida 
The hot noon lay, and on the plain's 

enamel ; 
Cool, in his bed, alone, the swift Sca- 

mander. 
" Why should I haste ? " said young 

and rosy Hylas : 
"The seas were rough, and long the 

way from Colchis. 
Beneath the snow-white awning slum- 
bers Jason, 
Pillowed upon his tame Thessalian 

panther ; 
The shields are piled, the listless oars 

suspended 
On the black thwarts, and all the hairy 

bondsmen 
Doze on the benches. They may wait 

for water, 
Till I have bathed in mountain-born 

Scamander." 

So said, unfilleting his purple chla- 

mys, 
And putting down his urn, he stood a 

moment, 
Breathing the faint, warm odor of the 

blossoms 
That spangled thick the lovely Dardan 

meadows. 
Then, stooping lightly, loosened he 

his buskins, 



ROMANCES 

he 



And felt with shrinking feet the crispy 

verdure, 
Naked, save one light robe that from 

his shoulder 
Hung to his knee, the youthful flush 

revealing 
Of warm, white limbs, half-nerved 

with coming manhood, 
Yet fair and smooth with tenderness 

of beauty. 
Now to the river's sandy marge ad- 
vancing, 
He dropped the robe, and raised his 

head exulting 
In the clear sunshine, that with beam 

embracing 
Held him against Apollo's glowing 

bosom. 
For sacred to Latona's son is Beauty, 
Sacred is Youth, the joy of youthful 

feeling. 
A joy indeed, a living joy, was 

Hylas, 
Whence Jove-begotten HgraclSs, the 

mighty, 
To men though terrible, to him was 

gentle, 
Smoothing his rugged nature into 

laughter 
When the boy stole his club, or from 

his shoulders 
Dragged the huge paws of the Nemaean 

lion. 

The thick, brown locks, tossed back- 
ward from his forehead, 
Fell soft about his temples ; manhood's 

blossom 
Not yet had sprouted on his chin, but 

freshly 
Curved the fair cheek, and full the red 

lips, parting, 
Like a loose bow, that just has 

launched its arrow. 
His large blue eyes, with joy dilate 

and beamy, 
Were clear as the unshadowed Grecian 

heaven ; 
Dewy and sleek his dimpled shoulders 

rounded 
To the white arms and whiter breast 

between them. 
Downward, the supple lines had less 

of softness : 
His back was like a god's ; his loins 

were moulded 



HYLAS 



35 



As if some pulse of power began to 
waken ; 

The springy fulness of his thighs, 
outswerving, 

Sloped to his knee, and, lightly drop- 
ping downward, 

Drew the curved lines that breathe, 
in rest, of motion. 

He saw his glorious limbs reversely 

mirrored 
In the still wave, and stretched his 

foot to press it 
On the smooth sole that answered at 

the surface : 
Alas ! the shape dissolved in glimmer- 
ing fragments. 
Then, timidly at first, he dipped, and 

catching 
Quick breath, with tingling shudder, 

as the waters 
Swirled round his thighs, and deeper, 

slowly deeper, 
Till on his breast the River's cheek 

was pillowed, 
And deeper still, till every shoreward 

ripple 
Talked in his ear, and like a cygnet's 

bosom 
His white, round shoulder shed the 

dripping crystal. 
There, as he floated, with a rapturous 

motion, 
The lucid coolness folding close 

around him, 
The lily-cradling ripples murmured, 

"Hylas!" 
He shook from off his ears the hyacin- 

thine 
Curls, that had lain unwet upon the 

water, 
And still the ripples murmured, 

"Hylas! Hylas!" 
He thought : "The voices are but ear- 
born music. 
Pan dwells not here, and Echo still is 

calling 
From some high cliff that tops a 

Thracian valley : 
So long mine ears, on tumbling Helles- 

pontus, 
Have heard the sea waves hammer 

Argo's forehead, 
That I misdeem the fluting of this 

current 



For some lost nymph — " Again the 

murmur, ' ' Hylas ! " 
And with the sound a cold, smooth 

arm around him 
Slid like a wave, and down the clear, 

green darkness 
Glimmered on either side a shining 

bosom, — 
Glimmered, uprising slow ; and ever 

closer 
"Wound the cold arms, till, climbing 

to his shoulders, 
Their cheeks lay nestled, while the 

purple tangles 
Their loose hair made, in silken mesh 

enwound him. 
Their eyes of clear, pale emerald then 

uplifting, 
They kissed his neck with lips of 

humid coral, 
And once again there came a murmur, 

"Hylas! 
O, come with us! O, follow where 

we wander 
Deep down beneath the green, trans- 
lucent ceiling, — 
Where on the sandy bed of old Sca- 

mander 
With cool white buds we braid our 

purple tresses, 
Lulled by the bubbling waves around 

us stealing ! 
Thou fair Greek boy, O, come with 

us! O, follow 
Where thou no more shalt hear Pro- 

pontis riot, 
Bat by our arms be lapped in endless 

quiet, 
Within the glimmering caves of Ocean 

hollow ! 
We have no love; alone, of all the 

Immortals, 
We have no love. O, love us, we who 

press thee 
With faithful arms, though cold, — 

whose lips caress thee, — 
Who hold thy beauty prisoned ! Love 

us, Hylas ! " 

The boy grew chill to feel their twin- 
ing pressure 

Lock round his limbs, and bear him, 
vainly striving, 

Down from the noonday brightness. 
" Leave me, Naiads ! 



36 



ROMANCES 



Leave me ! " he cried ; " the day to me 

is dearer 
Than all your caves deep-sphered in 

Ocean's quiet. 
I am but mortal, seek but mortal 

pleasure : 
I would not change this flexile, warm 

existence, 
Though swept by storms, and shocked 

by Jove's dread thunder, 
To be a king beneath the dark-green 

waters." 
Still moaned the humid lips, between 

their kisses, 
"We have no love. O, love us, we 

who love thee ! " 
And came in answer, thus, the words 

of Hylas : 
" My love is mortal. For the Argive 

maidens 
I keep the kisses which your lips 

would ravish. 
Unlock your cold white arms, — take 

from my shoulder 
The tangled swell of your bewildering 

tresses. 
Let me return : the wind comes down 

from Ida, 
And soon the galley, stirring from her 

slumber, 
Will fret to ride where Pelion's twi- 
light shadow 
Falls o'er the towers of Jason's sea- 
girt city. 
I am not yours, — I cannot braid the 

lilies 
In your wet hair, nor on your argent 

bosoms 
Close my drowsed eyes to hear your 

rippling voices. 
Hateful to me your sweet, cold, crys- 
tal being, — 
Your world of watery quiet. Help, 

Apollo ! 
For I am thine: thy fire, thy beam, 

thy music, 
Dance in my heart and flood my sense 

with rapture ! 
The joy, the warmth and passion now 

awaken, 
Promised by thee, but erewhile calmly 

sleeping. 
O, leave me, Naiads ! loose your chill 

embraces, 
Or I shall die, for mortal maidens pin- 
ing." 



But still with unrelenting arms they 

bound him, 
And still, accordant, flowed their 

watery voices : 
"We have thee now, — we hold thy 

beauty prisoned ; 
O, come with us beneath the emerald 

waters ! 
We have no love : we have thee, rosy 

Hylas. 
O, love us, who shall nevermore re- 
lease thee : 
Love us, whose milky arms will be 

thy cradle 
Far down on the untroubled sands of 

ocean, 
Where now we bear thee, clasped in 

our embraces." 
And slowly, slowly sank the amorous 

Naiads ; 
The boy's blue eyes, upturned, looked 

through the water, 
Pleading for help ; but Heaven's im- 
mortal Archer 
Was swathed in cloud. The ripples 

hid his forehead, 
And last, the thick, bright curls a 

moment floated, 
So warm and silky that the stream 

upbore them, 
Closing reluctant, as he sank for- 



The sunset died behind the crags of 
Imbros. 

Argo was tugging at her chain ; for 
freshly 

Blew the swift breeze, and leaped the 
restless billows. 

The voice of Jason roused the dozing 
sailors, 

And up the mast was heaved the 
snowy canvas. 

But mighty H^racl^s, the Jove-begot- 
ten, 

Unmindful stood, beside the cool Sca- 
mander, 

Leaning upon his club. A purple 
chlamys 

Tossed o'er an urn was all that lay 
before him : 

And when he called, expectant, " Hy- 
las! Hylas!" 

The empty echoes made him answer, 
— "Hylas!" 

1850. 



KUBLEH 



37 



KUBLEH 

A STORY OF THE ASSYRIAN DESERT 

The black-eyed children of the Desert 

drove 
Their flocks together at the set of sun. 
The tents were pitched; the weary 

camels bent 
Their suppliant necks, and knelt upon 

the sand ; 
The hunters quartered by the kindled 

fires 
The wild boars of the Tigris they had 

slain, 
And all the stir and sound of evening 

ran 
Throughout the Shammar camp. The 

dewy air 
Bore its full burden of confused delight 
Across the flowery plain ; and while, 

afar, 
The snows of Koordish Mountains in 

the ray 
Flashed roseate amber, Nimroud's an- 
cient mound 
Rose broad and black against the burn- 
ing West. 
The shadows deepened, and the stars 

came out, 
Sparkling in violet ether ; one by one 
Glimmered the ruddy camp-fires on 

the plain, 
And shapes of steed and horseman 

moved among 
The dusky tents, with shout and jos- 
tling cry, 
And neigh and restless prancing. 

Children ran 
To hold the thongs, while every rider 

drove 
His quivering spear in the earth, and 

by his door 
Tethered the horse he loved. In midst 

of all 
Stood Shammeriy ah, whom they dared 

not touch, — 
The foal of wondrous Kubleh, to the 

Shekh 
A dearer wealth than all his Georgian 

girls. 

But when their meal was o'er, — when 

the red fires 
Blazed brighter, and the dogs no longer 

bayed, — 



When Shammar hunters with the boys 
sat down 

To cleanse their bloody knives, came 
Alimar, 

The poet of the tribe, whose songs of 
love 

Are sweeter than Bassora's nightin- 
gales, — 

Whose songs of war can fire the Arab 
blood 

Like war itself : who knows not Ali- 
mar ? 

Then asked the men, ' ' O Poet, sing of 
Kubleh!" 

And boys laid down the burnished 
knives and said, 

' ' Tell us of Kubleh, whom we never 
saw, — 

Of wondrous Kubleh ! " Closer drew 
the group, 

With eager eyes, about the flickering 
fire, 

While Alim&r, beneath the Assyrian 
stars, 

Sang to the listening Arabs : 

' ' God is great ! 
O Arabs ! never since Mohammed rode 
The sands of Beder, and by Mecca's 

gate 
That winged steed bestrode, whose 

mane of fire 
Blazed up the zenith, when, by Allah 

called, 
He bore the Prophet to the walls of 

Heaven, 
Was like to Kubleh, Sofuk's wondrous 

mare : 
Not all the milk-white barbs, whose 

hoofs dashed flame, 
In Baghdad's stables, from the marble 

floor, — 
Who, swathed in purple housings, 

pranced in state 
The gay bazaars, by great Al-Raschid 

backed : 
Not the wild charger of Mongolian 

breed 
That went o'er half the world with 

Tamerlane : 
Nor yet those flying coursers, long ago 
From Ormuz brought by swarthy In- 
dian grooms 
To Persia's kings, — the foals of sacred 

mares, 
Sired by the fiery stallions of the sea ! 



38 



ROMANCES 

in all the Desert 
Who 



" Who ever told 
Land, 

The many deeds of Kubleh ? 
can tell 

Whence came she ? whence her like 
shall come again ? 

O Arabs ! sweet as tales of Schehera- 
zade 

Heard in the camp, when javelin shafts 
are tried 

On the hot eve of battle, are the words 

That tell the marvels of her history. 

"Far in the Southern sands, the hunt- 
ers say, 

Did Sofuk find her, by a lonely palm. 

The well had dried ; her fierce, impa- 
tient eye 

Glared red and sunken, and her slight 
young limbs 

Were lean with thirst. He checked 
his camel's pace, 

And, while it knelt, untied the water- 
skin, 

And when the wild mare drank, she 
followed him. 

Thence none but Sofuk might the sad- 
dle gird 

Upon her back, or clasp the brazen 
gear 

About Uer shining head, that brooked 
no curb 

From even him ; for she, alike, was 
royal. 

" Her form was lighter, in its shifting 

grace, 
Than some impassioned almeh's, when 

the dance 
Unbinds her scarf, and golden anklets 

gleam, 
Through floating drapery, on the 

buoyant air. 
Her light, free head was ever held 

aloft ; 
Between her slender and transparent 

ears 
The silken forelock tossed ; her nos- 
tril's arch, 
Thin-blown, in proud and pliant 

beauty spread 
Snuffing the desert winds. Her glossy 

neck 
Curved to the shoulder like an eagle's 

wing, 



And all her matchless lines of flank 
and limb 

Seemed fashioned from the flying 
shapes of air. 

When sounds of warlike preparation 
rang 

From tent to tent, her keen and rest- 
less eye 

Shone blood-red as a ruby, and her 
neigh 

Rang wild and sharp above the clash 
of spears. 

' ' The tribes of Tigris and the Desert 

knew her: 
Sofuk before the Shammar bands she 

bore 
To meet the dread Jebours, who waited 

not 
To bid her welcome ; and the savage 

Koord, 
Chased from his bold irruption on the 

plain, 
Has seen her hoof -prints in his moun- 
tain snow. 
Lithe as the dark-eyed Syrian gazelle, 
O'er ledge, and chasm, and barren 

steep amid 
The Sin jar-hills, she ran the wild ass 

down. 
Through many a battle's thickest 

brunt she stormed, 
Reeking with sweat and dust, and fet- 
lock deep 
In curdling gore. When hot and lurid 

haze 
Stifled the crimson sun, she swept 

before 
The whirling sand-spout, till her gusty 

mane 
Flared in its vortex, while the camels 

lay 
Groaning and helpless on the fiery 

waste. 

' ' The tribes of Taurus and the Cas- 
pian knew her : 

The Georgian chiefs have heard her 
trumpet neigh 

Before the walls of Tiflis ; pines that 
grow 

On ancient Caucasus have harbored 
her, 

Sleeping by Sofuk in their spicy 
gloom. 



METEMPSYCHOSIS OF THE PINE 



39 



The surf of Trebizond has bathed her 

flanks, 
When from the shore she saw the 

white-sailed bark 
That brought him home from Stam- 

boul. Never yet, 
O Arabs ! never yet was like to Kubleh ! 



her. 



She was 
oda- 



"And Sofuk loved 

more to him 
Than all his snowy-bosomed 

lisques. 
For many years she stood beside his 

tent, 
The glory of the tribe. 

" At last she died, — 

Died, while the fire was yet in all her 
limbs, — 

Died for the life of Sofuk, whom she 
loved. 

The base Jebours, — on whom be Al- 
lah's curse ! — 

Came on his path, when far from any 
camp, 

And would have slain him, but that 
Kubleh sprang 

Against the javelin points, and bore 
them down, 

And gained the open Desert. Wounded 
sore, 

She urged her light limbs into madden- 
ing speed, 

And made the wind a laggard. On 
and on 

The red sand slid beneath her, and 
behind 

"Whirled in a swift and cloudy turbu- 
lence, 

As when some star of Eblis, downward 
hurled 

By Allah's bolt, sweeps with its burn- 
ing hair 

The waste of darkness. On and on 
the bleak, 

Bare ridges rose before her, came, and 
passed, 

And every flying leap with fresher 
blood 

Her nostrils stained, till Sofuk's brow 
and breast 

Were flecked with crimson foam. He 
would have turned 

To save his treasure, though himself 
were lost, 



But Kubleh fiercely snapped the bra- 
zen rein. 
At last, when through her spent and 

quivering frame 
The sharp throes ran, our clustering 

tents arose, 
And with a neigh, whose shrill access 

of joy 
O'ercame its agony, she stopped and 

fell. 
The Shammar men came round her as 

she lay, 
And Sofuk raised her head, and held 

it close 
Against his breast. Her dull and 

glazing eye 
Met his, and with a shuddering gasp 

she died. 
Then like a child his bursting grief 

made way 
In passionate tears, and with him all 

the tribe 
Wept for the faithful mare. 

' ' They dug her grave 
Amid El-Hather's marbles, where she 

lies 
Buried with ancient kings ; and since 

that time 
Was never seen, and will not be again, 
O Arabs ! though the world be doomed 

to live 
As many moons as count the desert 

sands, 
The like of glorious Kubleh. God is 

great ! " 

1849. 

METEMPSYCHOSIS OF THE 
PINE 

As when the haze of some wan moon- 
light makes 
Familiar fields a land of mystery, 
Where, chill and strange, a ghostly 
presence wakes 
In flower, and bush, and tree, — 

Another life, the life of Day o'er- 
whelms ; 
The Past from present conscious- 
ness takes hue, 
And we remember vast and cloudy 
realms 
Our feet have wandered through : 



4Q 



ROMANCES 



So, oft, some moonlight of the mind 
makes dumb 
The stir of outer thought : wide 
open seems 
The gate wherethrough strange 
sympathies have come, 
The secret of our dreams ; 

The source of fine impressions, shoot- 
ing deep 
Below the failing plummet of the 
sense ; 
Which strike beyond all Time, and 
backward sweep 
Through all intelligence. 

We touch the lower life of beast and 
clod, 
And the long process of the ages see 
From blind old Chaos, ere the breath 
of God 
Moved it to harmony. 

All outward wisdom yields to that 
within, 
Whereof nor creed nor canon holds 
the key ; 
We only feel that we have ever been, 
And evermore shall be. 

And thus I know, by memories un- 
furled 
In rarer moods, and many a name- 
less sign, 
That once in Time, and somewhere in 
the world, 
I was a towering Pine, 

Rooted upon a cape that overhung 
The entrance to a mountain gorge 
whereon 
The wintry shadow of a peak was flung, 
Long after rise of sun. 

Behind, the silent snows; and wide 
below, 
The rounded hills made level, lessen- 
ing down 
To where a river washed with sluggish 
flow 
A many -templed town. 

There did I clutch the granite with 
firm feet, 
There shake my boughs above the 
roaring gulf, 



When mountain whirlwinds through 
the passes beat, 
And howled the mountain wolf. 

There did I louder sing than all the 
floods 
Whirled in white foam above the 
precipice, 
And the sharp sleet that stung the 
naked woods 
Answer with sullen hiss : 

But when the peaceful clouds rose 
white and high 
On blandest airs that April skies 
could bring, 
Through all my fibres thrilled the ten- 
der sigh, 
The sweet unrest of Spring. 

She, with warm fingers laced in mine, 
did melt 
In fragrant balsam my reluctant 
blood ; 
And with a smart of keen delight I 
felt 
The sap in every bud, 

And tingled through my rough old 
bark, and fast 
Pushed out the younger green, that 
smoothed my tones, 
When last year's needles to the wind 
I cast, 
And shed my scaly cones. 

I held the eagle till the mountain 
mist 
Rolled from the azure paths he 
came to soar, 
And like a hunter, on my gnarled 
wrist 
The dappled falcon bore. 

Poised o'er the blue abyss, the morn- 
ing lark 
Sang, wheeling near in rapturous 
carouse ; 
And hart and hind, soft-pacing 
through the dark, 
Slept underneath my boughs. 

Down on the pasture-slopes the herds- 
man lay, 
And for the flock his birchen trum- 
pet blew; 



METEMPSYCHOSIS OF THE PINE 



4i 



There ruddy children tumbled in their 
play, 
And lovers came to woo. 

And once an army, crowned with 
triumph, came 
Out of the hollow bosom of the 
gorge, 
"With mighty banners in the wind 
aflame, 
Borne on a glittering surge 

Of tossing spears, a flood that home- 
ward rolled, 
While cymbals timed their steps of 
victory, 
And horn and clarion from their 
throats of gold 
Sang with a savage glee. 

I felt the mountain walls below me 
shake, 
Vibrant with sound, and through 
my branches poured 
The glorious gust : my song thereto 
did make 
Magnificent accord. 

Some blind harmonic instinct pierced 
the rind 
Of that slow life which made me 
straight and high, 
And I became a harp for every 
wind, 
A voice for every sky ; 

When fierce autumnal gales began to 
blow, 
Roaring all day in concert, hoarse 
and deep ; 
And then made silent with my weight 
of snow — 
A spectre on the steep ; 

Filled with a whispering gush, like 
that which flows 
Through organ-stops, when sank 
the sun's red disk 
Beyond the city, and in blackness rose 
Temple and obelisk ; 

Or breathing soft, as one who sighs in 
prayer, 
Mysterious sounds of portent and of 
might, 



What time I felt the wandering waves 
of air 
Pulsating through the night. 

And thus for centuries my rhythmic 
chant 
Rolled down the gorge, or surged 
about the hill : 
Gentle, or stern, or sad, or jubilant, 
At every season's will. 

No longer Memory whispers whence 
arose 
The doom that tore me from my 
place of pride : 
Whether the storms that load the peak 
with snows, 
And start the mountain-slide, 

Let fall a fiery bolt to smite my top, 
Upwrenched my roots, and o'er the 
precipice 
Hurled me, a dangling wreck, erelong 
to drop 
Into the wild abyss ; 

Or whether hands of men, with scorn- 
ful strength 
And force from Nature's rugged 
armory lent, 
Sawed through my heart and rolled 
my tumbling length 
Sheer down the steep descent. 

All sense departed, with the boughs I 
wore ; 
And though I moved with mighty 
gales at strife, 
A mast upon the seas, I sang no more, 
And music was my life. 

Yet still that life awakens, brings 
again 
Its airy anthems, resonant and long, 
Till Earth and Sky, transfigured, fill 
my brain 
With rhythmic sweeps of song. 

Thence am I made a poet : thence are 
sprung 
Those shadowy motions of the soul, 
that reach 
Beyond all grasp of Art, — for which 
the tongue 
Is ignorant of speech. 



4 2 



ROMANCES 



And if some wild, full-gathered har- 
mony 
Roll its unbroken music through my 
line, 
There lives and murmurs, faintly 
though it be, 
The Spirit of the Pine. 

1851. 



THE SOLDIER AND THE PARD 

A second deluge ! Well, — no mat- 
ter : here, 
At least, is better shelter ' than the 

lean, 
Sharp-elbowed oaks, — a dismal com- 
pany! 
That stood around us in the mountain 

road 
When that cursed axle broke : a roof 

of thatch, 
A fire of withered boughs, and best 

of all, 
This ruddy wine of Languedoc, that 

warms 
One through and through, from heart 

to finger-ends. 
No better quarters for a stormy night 
A soldier, like myself, could ask ; and 

since 
The rough Cevennes refuse to let us 

forth, 
Why, fellow-travellers, if so you will, 
I '11 tell the story cut so rudely short 
When both fore-wheels broke from 

the diligence, 
Stocked in the rut, and pitched us all 

together : 
I said, we fought beside the Pyramids ; 
And somehow, from the glow of this 

good wine, 
And from the gloomy rain, that shuts 

one in 
With his own self, — a sorry mate 

sometimes ! — 
The scene comes back like life. As 

then, I feel 
The sun, and breathe the hot Egyptian 

air, 
Hear Kleber, see the sabre of Dessaix 
Flash at the column's front, and in the 

midst 
Napoleon, upon his Barbary horse, 
Calm, swarthy-browed, and wiser 

than the Sphinx 



Whose granite lips guard Egypt's 

mystery. 
Ha ! what a rout ! our cannon bellowed 

round 
The Pyramids : the Mamelukes closed 

in, 
And hand to hand like devils did we 

fight, 
Rolled towards Sakkara in the smoke 

and sand. 

For days we followed up the Nile. 

We pitched 
Our tents in Memphis, pitched them 

on the site 
Of Antinoe, and beside the cliffs 
Of Aboufayda. Then we came anon 
On Kenneh, ere the sorely-frightened 

Bey 
Had time to pack his harem : nay, we 

took 
His camels, not his wives : and so, 

from day 
To day, past wrecks of temples half 

submerged 
In sandy inundation, till we saw 
Old noseless Memnon sitting on the 

plain, 
Both hands upon his knees, and in the 

east 
Karnak's propylon and its pillared 

court. 
The sphinxes wondered — such as had 

a face — 
To see us stumbling down their ave- 
nues ; 
But we kept silent. One may whistle 

round 
Your Roman temples here at Nismes, 

or dance 
Upon the Pont du Gard ; — but, take 

my word, 
Egyptian ruins are a serious thing : 
You would not dare let fly a joke be- 
side 
The maimed colossi, though your 

very feet 
Might catch between some mummied 

Pharaoh's ribs. 

Dessaix was bent on chasing Mame- 
lukes, 

And so we rummaged tomb and cata- 
comb, 

Clambered the hills and watched the 
Desert's rim 




THE SPHINX (Page 42) 



THE SOLDIER AND THE PARD 



43 



For sight of horse. One day iny com- 
pany 
(I was but ensign then) found far 

within 
The sands, a two-days' journey from 

the Nile, 
A round oasis, like a jewel set. 
It was a grove of date-trees, clustering 

close 
About a tiny spring, whose overflow 
Trickled beyond their shade a little 

space, 
And the insatiate Desert licked it 

up. 
The fiery ride, the glare of afternoon 
Had burned our faces, so we stopped 

to feel 
The coolness and the shadow, like a 

bath 
Of pure ambrosial lymph, receive our 

limbs 
And sweeten every sense. Drowsed 

by the soft, 
Delicious greenness and repose, I crept 
Into a balmy nest of yielding shrubs, 
And floated off to slumber on a cloud 
Of rapturous sensation. 

When I woke, 
So deep had been the oblivion of that 

sleep, 
That Adam, when he woke in Para- 
dise, 
"Was not more blank of knowledge ; 

he had felt 
As heedlessly, the silence and the 

shade ; 
As ignorantly had raised his eyes and 

seen — 
As, for a moment, I — what then I 

saw 
With terror, freezing limb and voice 

like death, 
"When the slow sense, supplying one 

lost link, 
Ran with electric fleetness through 

the chain 
And showed me what I was, — no 

miracle, 
But lost and left alone amid the waste, 
Fronting a deadly Pard, that kept 

great eyes 
Fixed steadily on mine. I could not 

move : 
My heart beat slow and hard : I sat 

and gazed, 



Without a wink, upon those jasper 

orbs, 
Noting the while, with horrible detail, 
Whereto my fascinated sight was 

bound, 
Their tawny brilliance, and the spotted 

fell 
That wrinkled round them, smoothly 

sloping back 
And curving to the short and tufted 

ears. 
I felt — and with a sort of fearful 

joy — 
The beauty of the creature : 't was a 

pard, 
Not such as one of those they show 

you caged 
In Paris, — lean and scurvy beasts 

enough ! 
No : but a desert pard, superb and 

proud, 
That would have died behind the 

cruel bars. 

I think the creature had not looked on 

man, 
For, as my brain grew cooler, I could 

see 
Small sign of fierceness in her eyes, 

but chief, 
Surprise and wonder. More and 

more entranced, 
Her savage beauty warmed away the 

chill 
Of deathlike terror at my heart : I 

stared 
With kindling admiration, and there 

came 
A gradual softness o'er the flinty 

light 
Within her eyes ; a shadow crept 

around 
Their yellow disks, and something 

like a dawn 
Of recognition of superior will, 
Of brute affection, sympathy enslaved 
By higher nature, then informed her 

face. 
Thrilling in every nerve, I stretched 

my hand, — 
She silent, moveless, — touched her 

velvet head, 
And with a warm, sweet shiver in my 

blood, 
Stroked down the ruffled hairs. She 

did not start ; 



44 



ROMANCES 

lapse, drew up 
- another, — till 



But, in a moment's 
one paw 

And moved a step, 
her breath 

Came hot upon my face. She stopped : 
she rolled 

A deep -voiced note of pleasure and of 
love, 

And gathering up her spotted length, 
lay down, 

Her head upon my lap, and forward 
thrust 

One heavy-moulded paw across my 
knees, 

The glittering talons sheathing ten- 
derly. 

Thus we, in that oasis all alone, 

Sat when the sun went down : the 
Pard and I, 

Caressing and caressed: and more of 
love 

And more of confidence between us 
came, 

I grateful for my safety, she alive 

With the dumb pleasure of companion- 
ship, 

Which touched with instincts of hu- 
manity 

Her brutish nature. When I slept, at 
last, 
V My arm was on her neck. 

The morrow brought 
No rupture of the bond between us 

twain. 
The creature loved me; she would 

bounding come, 
Cat-like, to rub her great, smooth, yel- 
low head 
Against my knee, or with rough tongue 

would lick 
The hand that stroked the velvet of 

her hide. 
How beautiful she was ! how lithe 

and free 
The undulating motions of her frame ! 
How shone, like isles of tawny gold, 

her spots, 
Mapped on the creamy white! And 

when she walked, 
No princess, with the crown about 

her brows, 
Looked so superbly royal. Ah, my 

friends, 
Smile as you may, but I would give 

this life 



With its fantastic pleasures — aye, 

even that 
One leads in Paris — to be back again 
In the red Desert with my splendid 

Pard. 



That grove of date-trees was our home, 

our world, 
A star of verdure in a sky of sand. 
Without the feathery fringes of its 

shade 
The naked Desert ran, its burning 

round 
Sharp as a sword : the naked sky 

above, 
Awful in its immensity, not shone 
There only, where the sun supremely 

flamed, 
But all its deep-blue walls were pene- 
trant 
With dazzling light. God reigned in 

Heaven and Earth, 
An Everlasting Presence, and his care 
Fed us, alike his children. From the 

trees 
That shook down pulpy dates, and 

from the spring, 
The quiet author of that happy grove, 
My wants were sated ; and when mid- 
night came, 
Then would the Pard steal softly from 

my side, 
Take the unmeasured sand with flying 

leaps 
And vanish in the dusk, returning 

soon 
With a gazelle's light carcass in her 

jaws. 
So passed the days, and each the other 

taught 
Our simple language. She would 

come at call 
Of the pet name I gave her, bound 

and sport 
When so I bade, and she could read 

my face 
Through all its changing moods, with 

better skill 
Than many a Christian comrade. Pard 

and beast, 
Though you may say she was, she had 

a soul. 

But Sin will find the way to Para- 
dise. 
Erelong the sense of isolation fed 



THE SOLDIER AND THE PARD 



45 



My mind with restless fancies. I be- 
gan 
To miss the life of camp, the march, 

the fight, 
The soldier's emulation : youthful 

blood 
Ran in my veins : the silence lost its 

charm, 
And when the morning sunrise lighted 

up 
The threshold of the Desert, I would 

gaze 
With looks of bitter longing o'er the 

sand. 
At last, I filled my soldier's sash with 

dates. 
Drank deeply of the spring, and while 

the Pard 
Roamed in the starlight for her forage 

took 
A westward course. The grove al- 
ready lay 
A dusky speck — no more — when 

through the night 
Came the forsaken creature's eager 

cry. 
Into a sandy pit I crept, and heard 
Her bounding on my track until she 

rolled 
Down from the brink upon me. Then 

with cries 
Of joy and of distress, the touching 

proof 
Of the poor beast's affection, did she 

strive 
To lift me — Pardon, friends! these 

foolish eyes 
Must have their will : and had you 

seen her then, 
In her mad gambols, as we homeward 

went, 
Your hearts had softened too. 

But I, possessed 
By some vile devil of mistrust, became 
More jealous and impatient. In my 

heart 
I cursed the grove, and with suspicions 

wronged 
The noble Pard. She keeps me here, 

I thought, 
Deceived with false caresses, as a 

cat 
Toys with the trembling mouse she 

straight devours. 
Will she so gently fawn about my feet, 



When the gazelles are gone ? Will 

she crunch dates, 
And drink the spring, whose only 

drink is blood ? 
Am I to ruin flattered, and by 

whom ? — 
Not even a man, a wily beast of prey. 
Thus did the Devil whisper in mine 

ear, 
Till those black thoughts were rooted 

in my heart 
And made me cruel. So it chanced 

one day, 
That as I watched a flock of birds 

that wheeled, 
And dipped, and circled in the air, the 

Pard, 
Moved by a freak of fond solicitude 
To win my notice, closed her careful 

fangs 
About my knee. Scarce knowing 

what I did, 
In the blind impulse of suspicious 

fear, 
I plunged, full home, my dagger in 

her neck. 
God! could I but recall that blow! 

She loosed 
Her hold, as softly as a lover quits 
His mistress' lips, and with a single 

groan, 
Full of reproach and sorrow, sank 

and died. 
What had I done ! Sure never on this 

earth 
Did sharper grief so base a deed re- 
quite. 
Its murderous fury gone, my heart 

was racked 
With pangs of wild contrition, spent 

itself 
In cries and tears, the while I called 

on God 
To curse me for my sin. There lay 

the Pard, 
Her splendid eyes all film, her bla- 
zoned fell 
Smirched with her blood ; and I, her 

murderer, 
Less than a beast, had thus repaid her 

love. 

Ah, friends! with all this guilty 
memory 

My heart is sore : and little now re- 
mains 



46 



ROMANCES 



To tell you, but that afterwards — 

how long, 
I could not know — our soldiers 

picked me up, 
Wandering about the Desert, wild 

with grief 
And sobbing like a child. My nerves 

have grown 
To steel, in many battles ; I can step 
Without a shudder through the heaps 

of slain ; 
But never, never, till the day I die, 
Prevent a woman's weakness when I 

think 
Upon my desert Pard : and if a man 
Deny this truth she taught me, to his 

face 
I say he lies : a beast may have a soul. 

1851. 



ARIEL IN THE CLOVEN PINE 

Now the frosty stars are gone : 
I have watched them one by one, 
Fading on the shores of Dawn. 
Round and full the glorious sun 
Walks with level step the spray, 
Through his vestibule of Day, 
While the wolves that late did howl 
Slink to dens and coverts foul, 
Guarded by the demon owl, 
Who, last night, with mocking croon, 
Wheeled athwart the chilly moon, 
And with eyes that blankly glared 
On my direful torment stared. 

The lark is flickering in the light ; 
Still the nightingale doth sing ; — 
All the isle, alive with Spring, 
Lies, a jewel of delight, 
On the blue sea's heaving breast : 
Not a breath from out the West, 
But some balmy smell doth bring 
From the sprouting myrtle buds, 
Or from meadowy vales that lie 
Like a green inverted sky, 
Which the yellow cowslip stars, 
And the bloomy almond woods, 
Cloud -like, cross with roseate bars. 
All is life that I can spy, 
To the farthest sea and sky, 
And my own the only pain 
Within this ring of Tyrrhene main. 

In the gnarled and cloven Pine 



Where that hell-born hag did chain 

me 
All this orb of cloudless shine, 
All this youth in Nature's veins 
Tingling with the season's wine, 
With a sharper torment pain me. 
Pansies in soft April rains 
Fill their stalks with honeyed sap 
Drawn from Earth's prolific lap ; 
But the sluggish blood she brings 
To the tough Pine's hundred rings 
Closer locks their cruel hold, 
Closer draws the scaly bark 
Round the crevice, damp and cold, 
Where my useless wings I fold, — 
Sealing me in iron dark. 
By this coarse and alien state 
Is my dainty essence wronged ; 
Finer senses that belonged 
To my freedom, chafe at Fate, 
Till the happier elves I hate, 
Who in moonlight dances turn 
Underneath the palmy fern, 
Or in light and twinkling bands 
Follow on with linked hands 
To the Ocean's yellow sands. 

Primrose-eyes each morning ope 

In their cool, deep beds of grass ; 

Violets make the airs that pass 

Telltales of their fragrant slope. 

I can see them where they spring 

Never brushed by fairy wing. 

All those corners I can spy 

In the island's solitude, 

Where the dew is never dry, 

Nor the miser bees intrude. 

Cups of rarest hue are there, 

Full of perfumed wine undrained, — 

Mushroom banquets, ne'er profaned, 

Canopied by maiden-hair. 

Pearls I see upon the sands, 

Never touched by other hands, 

And the rainbow bubbles shine 

On the ridged and frothy brine, 

Tenantless of voyager 

Till they burst in vacant air. 

Oh, the songs that sung might be, 

And the mazy dances woven, 

Had that witch ne'er crossed the sea 

And the Pine been never cloven ! 

Many years my direst pain 
Has made the wave-rocked isle com- 
plain. 
Winds, that from the Cyclades 



ARIEL IN THE CLOVEN PINE 



47 



Came, to blow in wanton riot 
Round its shore's enchanted quiet, 
Bore my wailings on the seas : 
SoiTOwing birds in Autumn went 
Through the world with my lament. 
Still the bitter fate is mine, 



All delight unshared to see, 
Smarting in the cloven Pine, 
While I wait the tardy axe 
Which, perchance, shall set me free 
From the damned Witch Sycorax. 
1849. ' 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT 



Da der West war durchgekostet, 
Hat er nun den Ost entmostet. 

Ruckert. 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT 

1851-1854 

PROEM DEDICATORY 

AN EPISTLE FROM MOUNT TMOLUS 
TO RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 



O Friend, were you but couched on Tmolus' side, 
In the warm myrtles, in the golden air 
Of the declining day, which half lays bare, 

Half drapes, the silent mountains and the wide 

Embosomed vale, that wanders to the sea ; 
And the far sea, with doubtful specks of sail, 

And farthest isles, that slumber tranquilly 
Beneath the Ionian autumn's violet veil ; — 

"Were you but with me, little were the need 
Of this imperfect artifice of rhyme, 
Where the strong Fancy peals a broken chime 

And the ripe brain but sheds abortive seed. 

But I am solitary, and the curse, 

Or blessing, which has clung to me from birth — 

The torment and the ecstasy of verse — 
Comes up to me from the illustrious earth 

Of ancient Tmolus ; and the very stones, 

Reverberant, din the mellow air with tones 

Which the sweet air remembers ; and they blend 
With fainter echoes, which the mountains fling 

From far oracular caverns : so, my Friend, 
I cannot choose but sing ! 



Unto mine eye, less plain the shepherds be, 

Tending their browsing goats amid the broom, 
Or the slow camels, travelling towards the sea, 

Laden with bales from Baghdad's gaudy loom, 
Or yon nomadic Turcomans, that go 

Down from their summer pastures — than the twain 
Immortals, who on Tmolus' thymy top 

Sang, emulous, the rival strain ! 
Down the charmed air did light Apollo drop ; 
Great Pan ascended from the vales below. 
I see them sitting in the silent glow ; 
I hear the alternating measures flow 



52 POEMS OF THE ORIENT 

From pipe and golden lyre ; — the melody 

Heard by the Gods between their nectar bowls, 
Or when, from out the chambers of the sea, 

Comes the triumphant Morning, and unrolls 
A pathway for the sun ; then, following swift, 

The daedal harmonies of awful caves 
Cleft in the hills, and forests that uplift 

Their sea-like boom, in answer to the waves, 
With many a lighter strain, that dances o'er 
The wedded reeds, till Echo strives in vain 
To follow : 
Hark ! once more, 
How floats the God's exultant strain 
In answer to Apollo ! 

" The wind in the reeds and the rushes. 
The bees on the bells of thyme, 
The birds on the myrtle bushes, 
The cicdle above in the lime, 
And the lizards below in the grass 
Are as silent as ever old Tmolus was, 
Listening to my sweet pipings. " 



I cannot separate the minstrels' worth ; 
Each is alike transcendent and divine. 

What were the Day, unless it lighted Earth ? 
And what were Earth, should Day forget to shine ! 

But were you here, my Friend, we twain would build 
Two altars, on the mountain's sunward side : 
There Pan should o'er my sacrifice preside, 

And there Apollo your oblation gild. 

He is your God, but mine is shaggy Pan ; 
Yet, as their music no discordance made, 
So shall our offerings side by side be laid, 

And the same wind the rival incense fan. 



You strain your ear to catch the harmonies 

That in some finer region have their birth ; 
I turn, despairing, from the quest of these, 

And seek to learn the native tongue of Earth. 
In "Fancy's tropic clime " your castle stands, 

A shining miracle of rarest art ; 
I pitch my tent upon the naked sands, 
And the tall palm, that plumes the orient lands, 

Can with its beauty satisfy my heart. 
You, in your starry trances, breathe the air 

Of lost Elysium, pluck the snowy bells 

Of lotus and Olympian asphodels, 
And bid us their diviner odors share. 
I at the threshold of that world have lain, 

Gazed on its glory, heard the grand acclaim 

Wherewith its trumpets hail the sons of Fame, 
And striven its speech to master — but in vain. 



A FJEAN TO THE DAWN 



53 



And now I turn, to find a late content 

In Nature, makiug mine her myriad shows ; 

Better contented with one living rose 
Than all the Gods' ambrosia ; sternly bent 
On wresting from her hand the cup, whence flow 

The flavors of her ruddiest life — the change 

Of climes and races — the unshackled range 
Of all experience ; — that my songs may show 
The warm red blood that beats in hearts of men, 
And those who read them in the festering den 

Of cities, may behold the open sky, 
And hear the rhythm of the winds that blow, 

Instinct with Freedom. Blame me not, that I 
Find in the forms of Earth a deeper joy 
Than in the dreams which lured me as a boy, 
And leave the Heavens, where you are wandering still 

With bright Apollo, to converse with Pan ; 

For, though full soon our courses separate ran, 
We, like the Gods, can meet on Tmolus' hill. 



There is no jealous rivalry in Song : 

I see your altar on the hill-top shine. 

And mine is built in shadows of the Pine, 
Yet the same worships unto each belong. 
Different the Gods, yet one the sacred awe 

Their presence brings us, one the reverent heart 
Wherewith we honor the immortal law 

Of that high inspiration, which is Art. 
Take, therefore, Friend ! these Voices of the Earth, 

The rhythmic records of my life's career, 
Humble, perhaps, yet wanting not the worth 

Of Truth, and to the heart of Nature near. 
Take them, and your acceptance, in the dearth 

Of the world's tardy praise, shall make them dear. 



A PJEAN TO THE DAWN 



The dusky sky fades into blue, 

And bluer waters bind us; 
The stars are glimmering faint and 
few, 

The night is left behind us ! 
Turn not where sinks the sullen 
dark 

Before the signs of warning, 
But crowd the canvas on our bark 

And sail to meet the morning. 
Rejoice! rejoice! the hues that fill 

The orient, flush and lighten ; 
And over the blue Ionian hill 

The Dawn begins to brighten ! 



We leave the Night, that weighed so 
long 
Upon the soul's endeavor, 
For Morning, on these hills of Song, 

Has made her home forever. 
Hark to the sound of trump and 
lyre, 
In the olive -groves before us, 
And the rhythmic beat, the pulse of 
fire 
Throbs in the full-voice chorus ! 
More than Memnonian grandeur 
speaks 
In the triumph of the paean, 
And all the glory of the Greeks 
Breathes o'er the old ^Egean. 



54 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT 



in 
Here shall the ancient Dawn return, 

That lit the earliest poet, 
Whose very ashes in his urn 

Would radiate glory through it, — 
The dawn of Life, when Life was 
Song, 

And Song the life of Nature, 
And the Singer stood amid the 
throng, — 

A God in every feature ! 
When Love was free, and free as air 

The utterance of Passion, 
And the heart in every fold lay bare, 

Nor shamed its true expression. 

IV 

Then perfect limb and perfect face 

Surpassed our best ideal ; 
Unconscious Nature's law was grace, — 

The Beautiful was real. 
For men acknowledged true desires, 

And light as garlands wore them ; 
They were begot by vigorous sires, 

And noble mothers bore them. 
Oh, when the shapes of Art they 
planned 

Were living forms of passion, 
Impulse and Deed went hand in hand, 

And Life was more than Fashion ! 



The seeds of Song they scattered first 

Flower in all later pages ; 
Their forms have woke the Artist's 
thirst 

Through the succeeding ages : 
But I will seek the fountain-head 

Whence flowed their inspiration, 
And lead the unshackled life they led, 

Accordant with Creation. 
The World's false life, that follows 
still, 

Has ceased its chain to tighten, 
And over the blue Ionian hill 

I see the sunrise brighten ! 

1854. 

THE POET IN THE EAST 

The Poet came to the Land of the 
East, 
When spring was in the air. : 
The Earth was dressed for a wedding 
feast, 
So young she seemed, and fair ; 



And the Poet knew the Land of the 
East, — 
His soul was native there. 

All things to him were the visible 
forms 
Of early and precious dreams, — 
Familiar visions that mocked his 
quest 
Beside the Western streams, 
Or gleamed in the gold of the clouds, 
unrolled 
In the sunset's dying beams. 

He looked above in the cloudless calm, 
And the Sun sat on his throne ; 

The breath of gardens, deep in balm, 
Was all about him blown, 

And a brother to him was the princely 
Palm, 
For he cannot live alone. 

His feet went forth on the myrtled 
hills, 

And the flowers their welcome shed ; 
The meads of milk-white asphodel 

They knew the Poet's tread, 
And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, 

The poppy's bonfire spread. 

And, half in shade and half in sun, 
The Rose sat in her bower, 

With a passionate thrill in her crimson 
heart — 
She had waited for the hour ! 

And, like a bride's, the Poet kissed 
The lips of the glorious flower. 

Then the Nightingale, who sat above 
In the boughs of the citron-tree, 

Sang : We are no rivals, brother mine, 
Except in minstrelsy ; 

For the rose you kissed with the kiss 
of love, 
She is faithful still to me. 

And further sang the Nightingale : 
Your bower not distant lies. 

I heard the sound of a Persian lute 
From the jasmined window rise, 

And, twin-bright stars, through the 
lattice-bars, 
I saw the Sultana's eyes. 

The Poet said : I will here abide, 
In the Sun's unclouded door ; 



THE TEMPTATION OF HASSAN BEN KHALED 55 



Here are the wells of all delight 
On the lost Arcadian shore : 

Here is the light on sea and land, 
And the dream deceives no more. 

Cawnpore, 1853. 



THE TEMPTATION OF HASSAN 
BEN KHALED 



streets 
Of Cairo, sang these verses at my 

door : 
" Blessed is he, who God and Prophet 

greets 
Each morn with prayer ; but he is 

blest much more 
"Whose conduct is his prayer's inter- 
preter 
Sweeter than musk, and pleasanter 

than myrrh, 
Richer than rubies, shall his portion 

be, 
"When God bids Azrael, ' Bring him 

unto me ! ' 
But woe to him whose life casts dirt 

upon 
The Prophet's word! When all his 

days are done, 
Him shall the Evil Angel trample 

down 
Out of the sight of God." Thus, with 

a frown 
Of the severest virtue, Hassan sang 
Unto the people, till the markets 

ransr. 



But two days after this, he came 

again 
And sang, and I remarked an altered 

strain. 
Before my shop he stood, with fore- 
head bent 
Like one whose sin hath made him 

penitent, — 
In whom the pride, that like a stately 

reed 
Lifted his head, is broken. "Blest 

indeed," 
(These were his words,) "is he who 

never fell, 
But blest much more, who from the 

verge of Hell 



Climbs up to Paradise : for Sin is 

sweet ; 
Strong is Temptation ; willing are 

the feet 
That follow Pleasure, manifold her 

snares, 
And pitfalls lurk beneath our very 

prayers: 
Yet God, the Clement, the Compas- 
sionate, 
In pity of our weakness keeps the 

gate 
Of Pardon open, scorning not to wait 
Till the last moment, when His mercy 

flings 
Splendor from the shade of Azrael's 

wings." 
"Wherefore, O Poet!" I to Hassan 

said, 
"This altered measure ? Wherefore 

hang your head, 

Hassan ! whom the pride of virtue 

gives 
The right to face the holiest man that 

lives ? 
Enter, I pray thee: this poor house 

will be 
Honored henceforth, if it may shelter 

thee." 
Hassan Ben Khaled lifted up his 

eyes 
To mine, a moment : then, in cheerful 

guise, 
He passed my threshold with unslip- 

pered feet. 

in 

1 led him from the noises of the street 
To the cool inner chambers, where my 

slave 
Poured out the pitcher's rosy-scented 

wave 
Over his hands, and laid upon his 

knee 
The napkin, silver-fringed : and when 

the pipe 
Exhaled a grateful odor from the ripe 
Latakian leaves, said Hassan unto me : 
"Listen, O Man! no man can truly 

say 
That he hath wisdom. What I sang 

to-day 
Was not less truth than what I sang 

before, 
But to Truth's house there is a single 

door, 



56 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT 



Which is Experience. He teaches best, 

Who feels the hearts of all men in his 
breast, 

And knows their strength or weakness 
through his own. 

The holy pride, that never was o'er- 
thrown, 

Was never tempted, and its words of 
blame 

Reach but the dull ears of the multi- 
tude : 

The admonitions, fruitful unto good, 

Come from the voice of him who con- 
quers shame." 

IV 

" Give me, OPoet! (if thy friend may 
be 

Worthy such confidence,) " I said, 
' ' the key 

Unto thy words, that I may share with 
thee 

Thine added wisdom." Hassan's 
kindly eye 

Before his lips unclosed, spake will- 
ingly, 

And he began : "But two days since, 
I went 

Singing what thou didst hear, with 
soul intent 

On my own virtue, all the markets 
through ; 

And when about the time of prayer, I 
drew 

Near the Gate of Victory, behold ! 

There came a man, whose turban 
fringed with gold 

And golden cimeter, bespake his 
wealth: 

' May God prolong thy days, O Has- 
san ! Health 

And Fortune be thy wisdom's aids ! ' 
he cried ; 

' Come to my garden by the river's side, 

Where other poets wait thee. Be my 
guest, 

For even the Prophets had their times 
of rest, 

And Rest, that strengthens unto virtu- 
ous deeds, 

Is one with Prayer.' Two royal- 
blooded steeds, 

Held by his grooms, were waiting at 
the gate, 

And though I shrank from such un- 
wonted state 



The master's words were manna to my 

pride, 
And, mounting straightway, forth we 

twain did ride 
Unto the garden by the river's side. 



"Never till then had I beheld such 

bloom. 
The west-wind sent its heralds of per- 
fume 
To bid us welcome, midway on the 

road. 
Full in the sun the marble portal 

glowed 
Like silver, but within the garden 

wall 
No ray of sunshine found a place to 

fall, 
So thick the crowning foliage of the 

trees, 
Roofing the walks with twilight ; and 

the air 
Under their tops was greener than the 

seas, 
And cool as they. The forms that 

wandered there 
Resembled those who populate the 

floor 
Of Ocean, and the royal lineage own 
That gave a Princess unto Persia's 

throne. 
All fruits the trees of this fair garden 

bore, 
Whose balmy fragrance lured the 

tongue to taste 
Their flavors : there bananas flung to 

waste 
Their golden flagons with thick honey 

filled ; 
From splintered cups the ripe pome- 
granates spilled 
A shower of rubies ; oranges that glow 
Like globes of fire, enclosed a heart of 

snow 
Which thawed not in their flame ; like 

balls of gold 
The peaches seemed, that had in blood 

been rolled ; 
Pure saffron mixed with clearest am- 
ber stained 
The apricots ; bunches of amethyst 
And sapphire seemed the grapes, so 

newly kissed 
That still the mist of Beauty's breath 

remained : 



THE TEMPTATION OF HASSAN BEN KHALED 57 



And where the lotus slowly swung in 

air 
Her snowy-bosomed chalice, rosy- 
veined, 
The golden fruit swung softly-cradled 

there, 
Even as a bell upon the bosom swings 
Of some fair dancer, — happy bell, 

that sings 
For joy, its golden tinkle keeping time 
To the heart's beating and the cymbal's 

chime! 
There dates of agate and of jasper 

lay, 
Dropped from the bounty of the preg- 
nant palm, 
And all ambrosial trees, all fruits of 

balm, 
All flowers of precious odors, made 

the day 
Sweet as a morn of Paradise. My 

breath 
Failed with the rapture, and with 

doubtful mind 
I turned to where the garden's lord 

reclined, 
And asked, ' "Was not that gate the 

Gate of Death ? ' 



"The guests were near a fountain. 
As I came 

They rose in welcome, wedding to 
my name 

Titles of honor, linked in choicest 
phrase, 

For Poets' ears are ever quick to 
Praise, 

The ' Open Sesame ! ' whose magic art 

Forces the guarded entrance of the 
heart. 

Young men were they, whose manly 
beauty made 

Their words the sweeter, and their 
speech displayed 

Knowledge of men, and of the Pro- 
phet's laws. 

Pleasant our converse was, where 
every pause 

Gave to the fountain leave to sing its 
song, 

Suggesting further speech ; until, ere- 
long, 

There came a troop of swarthy slaves, 
who bore 

Ewers and pitchers all of silver ore, 



Wherein we washed our hands ; then, 
tables placed, 

And brought us meats of every sump- 
tuous taste 

That makes the blood rich, — phea- 
sants stuffed with spice ; 

Young lambs, whose entrails were of 
cloves and rice ; 

Ducks bursting with pistachio nuts, 
and fish 

That in a bed of parsley swam. Each 
dish, 

Cooked with such art, seemed better 
than the last, 

And our indulgence in the rich repast 

Brought on the darkness ere we missed 
the day : 

But lamps were lighted in the foun- 
tain's spray, 

Or, pendent from the boughs, their 
colors told 

What fruits unseen, of crimson or of 
gold, 

Scented the gloom. Then took the 
generous host 

A basket filled with roses. Every 
guest 

Cried, ' Give me roses ! ' and he thus 
addressed 

His words to all : ' He who exalts 
them most 

In song, he only shall the roses wear.' 

Then sang a guest : ' The rose's 
cheeks are fair ; 

It crowns the purple bowl, and no 
one knows 

If the rose colors it, or it the rose.' 

And sang another : ' Crimson is its 
hue, 

And on its breast the morning's crys- 
tal dew 

Is changed to rubies.' Then a third 
replied : 

' It blushes in the sun's enamored sight, 

As a young virgin on her wedding- 
night, 

When from her face the bridegroom 
lifts the veil.' 

When all had sung their songs, I, 
Hassan, tried. 

'The Rose,' I sang, 'is either red or 
pale, 

Like maidens whom the flame of pas- 
sion burns, 

And Love or Jealousy controls, by 
turns. 



53 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT 



Its buds are lips preparing for a 

kiss; 
Its open flowers are like the blush of 

bliss 
On lovers' cheeks ; the thorns its 

armor are, 
And in its centre shines a golden 

star, 
As on a favorite's cheek a sequin 

glows — 
And thus the garden's favorite is the 

Rose.' 

VII 

" The master from his open basket 

shook 
The roses on my head. The others 

took 
Their silver cups, and rilling them 

with wine, 
Cried, 'Pledge our singing, Hassan, 

as we thine ! ' 
But I exclaimed, ' What is it I have 

heard ? 
Wine is forbidden by the Prophet's 

word : 
Surely, O Friends! ye would not 

lightly break 
The laws which bring ye blessing ? ' 

Then they spake : 
1 O Poet, learn thou that the law was 

made 
For men, and not for poets. Turn 

thine eye 
Within, and read the nature there 

displayed ; 
The gifts thou hast doth Allah's grace 

deny 
To common men ; they lift thee o'er 

the rules 
The Prophet fixed for sinners and for 

fools. 
The vine is Nature's poet: from his 

bloom 
The air goes reeling, tipsy with per- 
fume, 
And when the sun is warm within his 

blood 
It mounts and sparkles in a crimson 

flood; 
Rich with dumb songs he speaks not, 

till they find 
Interpretation in the Poet's mind. 
If Wine be evil, Song is evil too ; 
Then cease thy singing, lest it bring 

thee sin ; 



But wouldst thou know the strains 
which Hafiz knew, 

Drink as he drank, and thus the secret 
win.' 

They clasped my glowing hands ; 
they held the bowl 

Up to my lips, till, losing all control 

Of the fierce thirst, which at my scru- 
ples laughed, 

I drained the goblet at a single 
draught. 

It ran through every limb like fluid 
fire: 

' More, O my Friends ! ' I cried, the 
new desire 

Raging within me : ' this is life in- 
deed ! 

From blood like this is coined the 
nobler seed 

Whence poets are begotten. Drink 
again, f 

And give us music of a tender strain, 

Linking your inspiration unto mine, 

For music hovers on the lips of Wine ! ' 



' ' ' Music ! ' they shouted, echoing my 
demand, 

And answered with a beckon of his 
hand 

The gracious host, whereat a maiden, 
fair 

As the last star that leaves the morn- 
ing air, 

Came down the leafy paths. Her 
veil revealed 

The beauty of her face, which, half 
concealed 

Behind its thin blue folds, showed 
like the moon 

Behind a cloud that will forsake it 
soon. 

Her hair was braided darkness, but 
the glance 

Of lightning eyes shot from her coun- 
tenance, 

And showed her neck, that like an 
ivory tower 

Rose o'er the twin domes of her mar- 
ble breast. 

Were all the beauty of this age com- 
pressed 

Into one form, she would transcend 
its power. 

Her step was lighter than the young 
gazelle's, 



THE TEMPTATION OF HASSAN BEN KHALED 



59 



And as she walked, her anklet's golden 

hells 
Tinkled with pleasure, but were 

quickly mute 
With jealousy, as from a case she 

drew 
With snowy hands the pieces of her 

lute, 
And took her seat before me. As it 

grew 
To perfect shape, her lovely arms she 

bent 
Around the neck of the sweet instru- 
ment, 
Till from her soft caresses it awoke 
To consciousness, and thus its rapture 

spoke : 
' I was a tree within an Indian vale, 
When first I heard the love-sick night- 
ingale 
Declare his passion: every leaf was 

stirred 
With the melodious sorrow of the bird, 
And when he ceased, the song re- 
mained with me. 
Men came anon, and felled the harm- 
less tree, 
But from the memory of the songs I 

heard, 
The spoiler saved me from the destiny 
Whereby my brethren perished. O'er 

the sea 
I came, and from its loud, tumultuous 

moan 
I caught a soft and solemn undertone ; 
And when I grew beneath the maker's 

hand 
To what thou seest, he sang (the while 

he planned) 
The mirthful measures of a careless 

heart, 
And of my soul his songs became a 

part. 
Now they have laid my head upon a 

breast 
Whiter than marble, I am wholly blest. 
The fair hands smite me, and my 

strings complain 
With such melodious cries, they smite 

again, 
Until, with passion and with sorrow 

swayed, 
My torment moves the bosom of the 

maid, 
Who hears it speak her own. I am 

the voice 



Whereby the lovers languish or re- 
joice ; 

And they caress me, knowing that my 
strain 

Alone can speak the language of their 
pain.' 



' ' Here ceased the fingers of the maid 

to stray 
Over the strings ; the sweet song died 

away 
In mellow, drowsy murmurs, and the 

lute 
Leaned on her fairest bosom, and was 

mute. 
Better than wine that music was to 

me : 
Not the lute only felt her hands, but 

she 
Played on my heart-strings, till the 

sounds became 
Incarnate in the pulses of my frame. 
Speech left my tongue, and in my 

tears alone 
Found utterance. With stretched 

arms I implored 
Continuance, whereat her fingers 

poured 
A tenderer music, answering the tone 
Her parted lips released, the while her 

throat 
Throbbed, as a heavenly bird were 

fluttering there, 
And gave her voice the wonder of his 

note. 
' His brow,' she sang, ' is white beneath 

his hair ; 
The fertile beard is soft upon his chin, 
Shading the mouth that nestles warm 

within, 
As a rose nestles in its leaves ; I see 
His eyes, but cannot tell what hue 

they be, 
For the sharp eyelash, like a sabre, 

speaks 
The martial law of Passion ; in his 

cheeks 
The quick blood mounts, and then as 

quickly goes, 
Leaving a tint like marble when a 

rose 
Is held inside it : — bid him veil his 

eyes, 
Lest all my soul should unto mine 

arise, 



6o 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT 



And he behold it ! ' As she sang, her 

glance 
Dwelt on my face ; her beauty, like a 

lance, 
Transfixed my heart. I melted into 

sighs, 
Slain by the arrows of her beauteous 

eyes. 
' Why is her bosom made ' (I cried) ' a 

snare ? 
Why does a single ringlet of her 

haii- 
Hold my heart captive ? ' ' Would 

you know ? ' she said ; 
' It is that you are mad with love, and 

chains 
Were made for madmen.' Then she 

raised her head 
With answering love, that led to other 

strains, 
Until the lute, which shared with her 

the smart, 
Rocked as in storm upon her beating 

heart. 
Thus to its wires she made impas- 
sioned cries : 
' I swear it by the brightness of his 

eyes, 
I swear it by the darkness of his 

hair ; 
By the warm bloom his limbs and 

bosom wear ; 
By the fresh pearls his rosy lips en- 
close ; 
By the calm majesty of his repose ; 
By smiles I coveted, and frowns I 

feared, 
And by the shooting myrtles of his 

beard, — 
I swear it, that from him the morning 

drew 
Its freshness, and the moon her silvery 

hue, 
The sun his brightness, and the stars 

their fire, 
And musk and camphor all their odor- 
ous breath : 
And if he answer not my love's desire, 
Day will be night to me, and Life be 

Death!' 



"Scarce had she ceased, when, over- 
come, I fell 

Upon her bosom, where the lute no 
more 



That night was cradled ; song was si- 
lenced well 
With kisses, each one sweeter than 

before, 
Until their fiery dew so long was 

quaffed, 
I drank delirium in the infectious 

draught. 
The guests departed, but the sounds 

they made 
I heard not ; in the fountain-haunted 

shade 
The lamps burned out; the moon rode 

far above, 
But the trees chased her from our nest 

of love. 
Dizzy with passion, in mine ears the 

blood 
Tingled and hummed in a tumultuous 

flood, 
Until from deep to deep I seemed to 

fall, 
Like him, who from El Sirat's hair- 
drawn wall 
Plunges to endless gulfs. In broken 

gleams 
Glimmered the things I saw, so mixed 

with dreams 
The vain confusion blinded every 

sense, 
And knowledge left me. Then a 

sleep intense 
Fell on my brain, and held me as the 

dead, 
Until a sudden tumult smote my head, 
And a strong glare, as when a torch 

is hurled 
Before a sleeper's eyes, brought back 

the world. 

XI 

"Most wonderful ! The fountain and 

the trees 
Had disappeared, and in the place of 

these 
I saw the well-known Gate of Victory. 
The sun was high ; the people looked 

at me, 
And marvelled that a sleeper should 

be there 
On the hot pavement, for the second 

prayer 
Was called from all the minarets. I 

passed 
My hand across my eyes, and found at 

last 



EL KHALIL 



61 



What man I was. Then straightway- 
through my heart 

There rang a double pang, — the bitter 
smart 

Of evil knowledge, and the unhealthy- 
lust 

Of sinful pleasure ; and I threw the 
dust 

Upon my head, the burial of my 
pride, — 

The ashen soil, wherein I plant the 
tree 

Of Penitence. The people saw, and 
cried, 

1 May God reward thee, Hassan ! 
Truly, thou, 

Whom men have honored, addest to 
thy brow 

The crowning lustre of Humility : 

As thou abasest, God exalteth thee ! ' 

Which when I heard, I shed such 
tears of shame 

As might erase the record of my 
blame, 

And from that time I have not dared 
to curse 

The unrighteous, since the man who 
seemeth worse 

Than I, may purer be ; for, when I 
fell 

Temptation reached a loftier pinnacle. 

Therefore, O Man ! be Charity thy 
aim: 

Praise cannot harm, but weigh thy 
words of blame. 

Distrust the Virtue that itself exalts, 

But turn to that which doth avow its 
faults, 

And from Repentance plucks a whole- 
some fruit. 

Pardon, not Wrath, is God's best at- 
tribute." 

XII 

"The tale, O Poet! which thy lips 

have told," 
I said, "is words of rubies set in 

gold. 
Precious the wisdom which from evil 

draws 
Strength to fulfil the good, of Allah's 

laws. 
But lift thy head, O Hassan ! Thine 

own words 
Shall best console thee, for my tongue 

affords 



No phrase but thanks for what thou 
hast bestowed ; 

And yet I fain would have thee shake 
the load 

Of shame from off thy shoulders, see- 
ing still 

That by this fall thou hast increased 
thy will 

To do the work which makes thee 
truly blest." 

Hassan Ben Khaled wept and smote 

Ills V)T*P£i '•Vf" * 

"Hold! hold, 6 Man!" he cried: 

" why make me feel 
A deeper shame ? Why force me to 

reveal 
That Sin is as the leprous taint no art 
Can cleanse the blood from ? In my 

secret heart 
I do believe I hold at dearer cost 
The vanished Pleasure, than the Vir- 
tue lost." 

So saying, he arose and went his way ; 
And Allah grant he go no more astray. 

1854. 



EL KHALIL 

I am no chieftain, fit to lead 

Where spears are hurled and warriors 

bleed ; 
No poet, in my chanted rhyme 
To rouse the ghosts of ancient time ; 
No magian, with a subtle ken 
To rule the thoughts of other men ; 
Yet far as sounds the Arab tongue 
My name is known to old and young. 

My form has lost its pliant grace, 
There is no beauty in my face, 
There is no cunning in my arm, 
The Children of the Sun to charm ; 
Yet, where I go, my people's eyes 
Are lighted with a glad surprise, 
And in each tent a couch is free, 
And by each fire a place, for me. 

They watch me from the palms, and 

some 
Proclaim my coming ere I come. 
The children lift my hanjl to meet 
The homage of their kisses sweet ; 
With manly warmth the men embrace, 
The veiled maidens seek my face, 



62 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT 



And eyes, fresh kindled from the heart 
Keep loving watch when I depart. 

On God, the Merciful, I call, 
To shed His blessing over all : 
I praise His name, for He is Great, 
And Loving, and Compassionate ; 
And for the gift of love I give — 
The breath of life whereby I live — 
He gives me back, in overflow, 
His children's love, where'er I go. 

Deep sunk in sin the man must be 
That has no friendly word for me. 
I pass through tribes whose trade is 

death, 
And not a sabre quits the sheath ; 
For strong, and cruel as they prove, 
The sons of men are weak to Love. 
The humblest gifts to them I bring ; 
Yet in their hearts I rule, a king. 

1853. 

SONG 

Daughter of Egypt, veil thine eyes! 

I cannot bear their fire ; 
Nor will I touch with sacrifice 

Those altars of Desire. 
For they are flames that shun the day, 

And their unholy light 
Is fed from natures gone astray 

In passion and in night. 

The stars of Beauty and of Sin, 

They burn amid the dark, 
Like beacons that to ruin win 

The fascinated bark. 
Then veil their glow, lest I forswear 

The hopes thou canst not crown, 
And in the black waves of thy hair 

My struggling manhood drown ! 

1853. 

AMRAN'S WOOING 



You ask, O Frank ! how Love is born 
Within these glowing climes of Morn, 
Where envious veils conceal the 

charms 
That tempt a Western lover's arms, 
And how, without a voice or sound, 
From heart to heart the path is found, 
Sjnce on the eye alone is flung 
The burden of the silent tongue. 



You hearken with a doubtful smile 
Whene'er the wandering bards beguile 
Our evening indolence with strains 
Whose words gush molten through 

our veins, — 
The songs of Love, but half confessed, 
Where Passion sobs on Sorrow's 

breast, 
And mighty longings, tender fears, 
Steep the strong heart in fire and 

tears. 
The source of each accordant strain 
Lies deeper than the Poet's brain. 
First from the people's heart must 

spring 
The passions which he learns to sing ; 
They are the wind, the harp is he, 
To voice their fitful melody, — 
The language of their varying fate, 
Their pride, grief, love, ambition, 

hate, — 
The talisman which holds inwrought 
The touchstone of the listener's 

thought ; 
That penetrates each vain disguise, 
And brings his secret to his eyes. 
For, like a solitary bird 
That hides among the boughs un- 
heard 
Until some mate, whose carol breaks, 
Its own betraying song awakes, 
So, to its echo in those lays, 
The ardent heart itself betrays. 
Crowned with a prophet's honor, 

stands 
The Poet, on Arabian sands ; 
A chief, whose subjects love his 

thrall, — 
The sympathizing heart of all. 

ii 

Vaunt not your Western maids to me, 
Whose charms to every gaze are free : 
My love is selfish, and would share 
Scarce with the sun, or general air, 
The sight of beauty which has shone 
Once for mine eyes, and mine alone. 
Love likes concealment ; he can dress 
With fancied grace the loveliness 
That shrinks behind its virgin veil, 
As hides the moon her forehead pale 
Behind a cloud, yet leaves the air 
Softer than if her orb were there. 
And as the splendor of a star, 
When sole in heaven, seems brighter 
far 



AMRAN'S WOOING 



63 



So shines the eye, Love's star and 

sun, 
The brighter, that it shines alone. 
The light from out its darkness sent 
Is Passion's life and element ; 
And when the heart is warm and 

young, 
Let but that single ray be flung 
Upon its surface, and the deep 
Heaves from its unsuspecting sleep, 
As heaves the ocean when its floor 
Breaks over the volcano's core. 
Who thinks if cheek or lip be fair ? 
Is not all beauty centred where 
The soul looks out, the feelings move, 
And Love his answer gives to love ? 
Look on the sun, and you will find 
For other sights your eyes are blind. 
Look — if the colder blood you share 
Can give your heart the strength to 

dare — 
In eyes of dark and tender fire : 
What more can blinded love desire ? 



I was a stripling, quick and bold, 
And rich in pride as poor in gold, 
AYhen God's good will my journey 

bent 
One day to Shekh Abdallah's tent. 
My only treasure was a steed 
Of Araby's most precious breed ; 
And whether 't was in boastful whim 
To show his mettled speed of limb, 
Or that presumption, which, in sooth, 
Becomes the careless brow of youth, — 
Which takes the world as birds the 

air, 
And moves in freedom everywhere, — 
It matters not. But 'midst the tents 
I rode in easy confidence, 
Till to Abdallah's door I pressed 
And made myself the old man's guest. 
My "Peace* be with you! "was re- 
turned 
With the grave courtesy he learned 
From age and long authority, 
And in God's name he welcomed me. 
The pipe replenished, with its stem 
Of jasmine wood and amber gem, 
Was at my lips, and while I drew 
The rosy-sweet, soft vapor through 
In ringlets of dissolving blue, 
Waiting his speech with reverence 

meet, 
A woman's garments brushed my feet, 



And first through boyish senses ran 
The pulse of love which made me man. 
The handmaid of her father's cheer, 
With timid grace she glided near, . 
And, lightly dropping on her knee, 
Held out a silver zerf to me, 
Within whose cup the fragrance sent 
From Yemen's sunburnt berries blent 
With odors of the Persian rose. 
That picture still in memory glows 
With the same heat as then, — the 

gush 
Of fever, with its fiery flush 
Startling my blood ; and I can see — 
As she this moment knelt to me — 
The shrouded graces of her form ; 
The half-seen arm, so round and 

warm; 
The little hand, whose tender veins 
Branched through the henna's orange 

stains ; 
The head, in act of offering bent ; 
And through the parted veil, which 

lent 
A charm for what it hid, the eye, 
Gazelle-like, large, and dark, and shy, 
That with a soft, sweet tremble shone 
Beneath the fervor of my own, 
Yet could not, would not, turn away 
The fascination of its ray, 
But half in pleasure, half in fright, 
Grew unto mine, and builded bright 
From heart to heart a bridge of light. 



From the fond trouble of my look 
The zerf within her fingers shook, 
As with a start, like one who breaks 
Some happy trance of thought, and 

wakes 
Unto forgotten toil, she rose 
And passed. I saw the curtains close 
Behind her steps : the light was gone, 
But in the dark my heart dreamed on. 
Some random words — thanks ill ex- 
pressed — 
I to the stately Shekh addressed, 
With the intelligence which he, 
My host, could not demand of me ; 
How, wandering in the desert chase, 
I spied from far his camping-place, 
And Arab honor bade me halt 
To break his bread and share his salt. 
Thereto, fit reverence for his name, 
The praise our speech is quick to 
frame, 



6 4 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT 



Which, empty though it seem, was 

dear ■ 
To the old warrior's willing ear, 
And led his thoughts, by many a 

track, 
To deeds of ancient prowess back, 
Until my love could safely hide 
Beneath the covert of his pride. 
And when his "Go with God!" was 

said, 
Upon El-Azrek's back I sped 
Into the desert, wide and far, 
Beneath the silver evening-star, 
ADd, fierce with passion, without heed 
Urged o'er the sands my snorting 

steed 
As if those afrites, feared of man, — 
Who watch the lonely caravan, 
And, if a loiterer lags behind, 
Efface its tracks with sudden wind, 
Then fill the air with cheating cries, 
And make false pictures to his eyes 
Till the bewildered sufferer dies, — 
Had breathed on me their demon breath 
And spurred me to the hunt of Death. 



Yet madness such as this was worth 
All the cool wisdom of the earth, 
And sweeter glowed its wild unrest 
Than the old calm of brain and breast. 
The image of that maiden beamed 
Through all I saw, or thought, or 

dreamed, 
Till she became, like Light or Air, 
A part of life. And she shall share, 
I vowed, my passion and my fate, 
Or both shall fail me, soon or late, 
In the vain effort to possess ; 
For Life lives only in success. 
I could not, in her father's sight, 
Purchase the hand which was his right, 
And well I knew how quick denied 
The prayer would be to empty pride ; 
But Heaven and Earth shall sooner 

move 
Than bar the energy of Love. 
The sinews of my life became 
Obedient to that single aim, 
And desperate deed and patient 

thought 
Together in its service wrought. 
Keen as a falcon, when his eye 
In search of quarry reads the sky, 
I stole unseen, at eventide, 
Behind the well, upon whose side 



The girls their jars of water leaned. 
By one long, sandy hillock screened, 
I watched the forms that went and 

came, 
With eyes that sparkled with the 

flame 
Up from my heart in flashes sent, 
As one by one they came and went 
Amid the sunset radiance cast 
On the red sands: they came and 



And she, — thank God ! — she came at 
last! 

VI 

Then, while her fair companion bound 
The cord her pitcher's throat around, 
And steadied with a careful hand 
Its slow descent, upon the sand 
At the Shekh's daughter's feet, I sped 
A slender arrow, shaft and head 
With breathing jasmine-flowers en- 
twined, 
And roses such as on the wind 
Of evening with rich odors fan 
The white kiosks of Ispahan. 
A moment, fired with love and hope, 
I stayed upon the yellow slope 
El-Azrek's hoofs, to see her raise 
Her startled eyes in sweet amaze, — 
To see her make the unconscious sign 
Which recognized the gift as mine, 
And place, before she turned to part, 
The flowery barb against her heart. 



Again the Shekh's divan I pressed : 
The jasmine pipe was brought the 

guest, 
And Mariam, lovelier than before, 
Knelt with the steamy cup once more. 
O bliss ! within those eyes to see 
A soul of love look out on me, — 
A fount of passion, which is truth 
In the wild dialect of Youth, — 
Whose rich abundance is outpoured 
Like worship at a shrine adored, 
And on its rising deluge bears 
The heart to raptures or despairs. 
While from the cup the zerf con- 
tained 
The foamy amber juice I drained, 
A rose-bud in the zerf expressed 
The sweet confession of her breast. 
One glance of glad intelligence 
And silently she glided thence. 



AMRAN'S WOOING 



65 



" O Shekh!" I cried, as she with- 
drew, 
(Short is the speech where hearts are 

true,) 
"Thou hast a daughter ; let me be 
A shield to her, a sword to thee ! " 
Abdallah turned his steady eye 
Full on my face, and made reply : 
' ' It cannot be. The treasure sent 
By God must not be idly spent. 
Strong men there are, in service tried, 
Who seek the maiden for a bride ; 
And shall I slight their worth and 

truth 
To feed the passing flame of youth ? " 



11 No passing flame ! " my answer ran ; 
" But love which is the life of man, 
Warmed with his blood, fed by his 

breath, 
And, when it fails him, leaves but 

Death. 

Shekh, I hoped not thy consent ; 
But having tasted in thy tent 

An Arab welcome, shared thy bread, 

1 come to warn thee I shall wed 

Thy daughter, though her suitors be 
As leaves upon the tamarind-tree. 
Guard her as thou maj'st guard, I 

swear 
No other bed than mine shall wear 
Her virgin honors, and thy race 
Through me shall keep its ancient 

place. 
Thou'rt warned, and duty bids no 

more ; 
For, when I next approach thy door, 
Her child shall intercessor be 
To build up peace 'twixt thee and me." 
A little flushed my boyish brow ; 
But calmly then I spake, as now. 
The Shekh, with dignity that flung 
Rebuke on my impetuous tongue, 
Replied: "The young man's hopes 

are fair ; 
The young man's blood would all 

things dare. 
But age is wisdom, and can bring 
Confusion on the soaring wing 
Of reckless youth. Thy words are 

just, 
But needless; for I still can trust 
A father's jealousy to shield 
From robber grasp the gem concealed 
Within his tent, till he may yield 



To fitting hands the precious store. 
Go, then, in peace ; but come no more." 

IX 

My only sequin served to bribe 

A cunning mother of the tribe 

To Mariam's mind my plan to bring. 

A feather of the wild dove's wing, 

A lock of raven gloss and stain 

Sheared from El-Azrek's flowing mane 

And that pale flower whose fragrant 

cup 
Is closed until the moon comes up, — 
But then a tenderer beauty holds 
Than any flower the sun unfolds, — 
Declared my purpose. Her reply 
Let loose the winds of ecstasy : 
Two roses and the moonlight flower 
Told the acceptance, and the hour, — 
Two daily suns to waste their glow, 
And then, at moonrise, bliss — or woe. 



El-Azrek now, on whom alone 
The burden of our fate was thrown, 
Claimed from my hands a double meed 
Of careful training for the deed. 
I gave him of my choicest store — 
No guest was ever honored more. 
With flesh of kid, with whitest bread 
And dates of Egypt was he fed ; 
The camel's heavy udders gave 
Their frothy juice his thirst to lave: 
A charger, groomed with better care, 
The Sultan never rode to prayer. 
My burning hope, my torturing fear, 
I breathed in his sagacious ear ; 
Caressed him as a brother might, 
Implored his utmost speed in flight, 
Hung on his neck with many a vow, 
And kissed the white star on his brow. 
His large and lustrous eyeball sent 
A look which made me confident, 
As if in me some doubt he spied, 
And met it with a human pride. 
' ' Enough : I trust thee. 'T is the hour, 
And I have need of all thy power. 
Without a wing, God gives thee wings, 
And Fortune to thy forelock clings." 



The yellow moon was rising large 
Above the Desert's dusky marge, 
And save the jackal's whining moan, 
Or distant camel's gurgling groan, 
And the lamenting monotone 



66 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT 



Of winds that breathe their vain de- 
sire 
And on the lonely sands expire, 
A silent charm, a breathless spell, 
Waited with me beside the well. 
She is not there, — not yet, — but 

soon 
A white robe glimmers in the moon. 
Her little footsteps make no sound 
On the soft sand ; and with a bound, 
Where terror, doubt, and love unite 
To blind her heart to all but flight, 
Trembling, and panting, and op- 
pressed, 
She threw herself upon my breast. 
By Allah ! like a bath of flame 
The seething blood tumultuous came 
From life's hot centre as I drew 
Her mouth to mine : our spirits grew 
Together in one long, long kiss, — 
One swooning, speechless pulse of 

bliss, 
That, throbbing from the heart's core 

met 
In the united lips. Oh, yet 
The eternal sweetness of that draught 
Renews the thirst with which I 

quaffed 
Love's virgin vintage : starry fire 
Leapt from the twilights of desire, 
And in the golden dawn of dreams 
The space grew warm with radiant 

beams, 
Which from that kiss streamed o'er a 

sea 
Of rapture, in whose bosom we 
Sank down, and sank eternally. 

XII 

Now nerve thy limbs, El-Azrek! 

Fling 
Thy head aloft, and like a wing 
Spread on the wind thy cloudy mane ! 
The hunt is up : their stallions strain 
The urgent shoulders close behind, 
And the wide nostril drinks the wind. 
But thou art, too, of Nedjid's breed, 
My brother ! and the falcon's speed 
Slant down the storm's advancing line 
Would laggard be if matched with 

thine. 
Still leaping forward, whistling 

through 
The moonlight-laden air, we flew ; 
And from the distance, threateningly, 
Came the pursuer's eager cry. 



Still forward, forward, stretched our 

flight 
Through the long hours of middle 

night ; 
One after one the followers lagged, 
And even my faithful Azrek flagged 
Beneath his double burden, till 
The streaks of dawn began to fill 
The East, and freshening in the race, 
Their goaded horses gained apace. 
I drew my dagger, cut the girth, 
Tumbled my saddle to the earth, 
And clasped with desperate energies 
My stallion's side with iron knees ; 
While Mariam, clinging to my breast, 
The closer for that peril pressed. 
They come ! they come ! Their shouts 

we hear, 
Now faint and far, now fierce and near. 
O brave El-Azrek ! on the track 
Let not one fainting sinew slack, 
Or know thine agony of flight 
Endured in vain ! The purple light 
Of breaking morn has come at last. 
O joy ! the thirty leagues are past; 
And, gleaming in the sunrise, see, 
The white tents of the Aneyzee! 
The warriors of the waste, the foes 
Of Shekh Abdallah's tribe, are those 
Whose shelter and support I claim, 
Which they bestow in Allah's name ; 
While, wheeling back, the baffled few 
No longer venture to pursue. 

XIII 

And now, O Frank ! if you would see 

How soft the eyes that looked on me 

Through Mariam' s silky lashes, scan 

Those of my little Solyrnan. 

And should you marvel if the child 

His stately grandsire reconciled 

To that bold theft, when years had 

brought 
The golden portion which he sought, 
And what upon this theme befell, 
The Shekh himself can better tell. 
Off the Cape of Good Hope, 1853. 

A PLEDGE TO HAFIZ 

Brim the bowls with Shiraz wine ! 
Roses round your temples twine ; 
Brim the bowls with Shiraz wine, — 
Hafiz pledge we, Bard divine ! 
With the summer warmth that glows 
In the wine and on the rose, 



THE GARDEN OF IREM 



67 



Blushing, fervid, ruby-bright, 
We shall pledge his name aright. 

Hafiz, in whose measures move 
Youth and Beauty, Song and Love, — 
In his veins the nimble flood 
TVas of wine, and not of blood. 
All the songs he sang or thought 
In his brain were never wrought, 
But like rose-leaves fell apart 
From that bursting rose, his heart. 

Youth is morning's transient ray ; 

Love consumes itself away ; 

Time destroys what Beauty gives ; 

But in Song the Poet lives. 

While we pledge him — thus — and 

thus — 
He is present here in us ; 
'T is his voice that cries, not mine : 
Brim the bowls with Shiraz wine ! 

1S52. 



THE GARDEN OF IREM 



Have you seen the Garden of Irem ? 
No mortal knoweth the road thereto. 
Find me a path in the mists that gather 
When the sunbeams scatter the morn- 
ing dew, 
And I will lead you thither. 
Give me a key to the halls of the sun 
When he goes behind the purple sea, 
Or a wand to open the vaults that run 
Down to the af rite -guarded treasures, 
And I will open its doors to thee. 
Who hath tasted its countless plea- 
sures? 
Who hath breathed, in its winds of 

spice, 
Raptures deeper than Paradise ? 
Who hath trodden its ivory floors, 
Where the fount drops pearls from a 

golden shell, 
And heard the hinges of diamond doors 
Swing to the music of Israfel ? 
Its roses blossom, its palms arise, 
By the phantom stream that flows so fair 
Under the Desert's burning skies. 
Can you reach that flood, can you 

drink its tide, 
Can you swim its waves to the farther 

side, 
Your feet may enter there. 



I have seen the Garden of Irem. 
I found it, but I sought it not : 
Without a path, without a guide, 
I found the enchanted spot : 
Without a key its golden gate stood 

wide. 
I was young, and strong, and bold, 

and free 
As the milk-white foal of the Ned 3 idee, 
And the blood in my veins was like 

sap of the vine, 
That stirs, and mounts, and will not 

stop 
Till the breathing blossoms that bring 

the wine 
Have drained its balm to the last sweet 

drop. 
Lance and barb were all I knew, 
Till deep in the Desert the spot I found, 
Where the marvellous gates of Irem 

threw 
Their splendors over an unknown 

ground. 
Mine were the pearl and ivory floors, 
Mine the music of diamond doors, 
Turning each on a newer glory : 
Mine were the roses whose bloom out- 
ran 
The spring-time beauty of Gulistan, 
And the fabulous flowers of Persian 

story. 
Mine were the palms of silver stems, 
And blazing emerald for diadems; 
The fretted arch and the gossamer 

wreath, 
So light and frail you feared to breathe ; 
Yet o'er them rested the pendent spars 
Of domes bespangled with silver stars, 
And crusted gems of rare adorning : 
And ever higher, like a shaft of fire, 
The lessening links of the golden spire 
Flamed in the myriad-colored morning ! 

Like one who lies on the marble lip 
Of the blessed bath in a tranquil rest, 
And stirs not even a finger's tip 
Lest the beatific dream should slip, 
So did I lie in Irem's breast. 
Sweeter than Life and stronger than 

Death 
Was every draught of that blissful 

breath ; 
Warmer than summer came its glow 
To the youthful heart in a mighty 

flood, 



68 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT 



And sent its bold and generous blood 
To water the world in its onward flow. 
There, where the Garden of Irem lies, 
Are the roots of the Tree of Paradise, 
And happy are they who sit below, 
When into this world of Strife and 

Death 
The blossoms are shaken by Allah's 
breath. 
Granada, 1852. 



THE WISDOM OF ALI 

AN ARAB LEGEND 

The Prophet once, sitting in calm de- 
bate, 
Said : "I am Wisdom's fortress ; but 

the gate 
Thereof is Ali." Wherefore, some 

who heard, 
With unbelieving jealousy were 

stirred ; 
And, that they might on him confusion 

bring, 
Ten of the boldest joined to prove the 

thing. 
"Let us in turn to Ali go," they said, 
' ' And ask if Wisdom should be sought 

instead 
Of earthly riches ; then, if he reply 
To each of us, in thought, accordantly, 
And yet to none, in speech or phrase, 

the same, 
His shall the honor be, and ours the 

shame." 

Now, when the first his bold demand 

did make, 
These were the words which Ali 

straightway spake : — 

"Wisdom is the inheritance of those 
Whom Allah favors ; riches, of his 
foes." 

Unto the second he said : ' ' Thyself 

must be 
Guard to thy wealth; but Wisdom 

guardeth thee." 

Unto the third : "By Wisdom wealth 

is won ; 
But riches purchased wisdom yet for 

none." 



Unto the fourth: "Thy goods the 

thief may take ; 
But into Wisdom's house he cannot 

break." 

Unto the fifth: " Thy goods decrease 
the more 

Thou giv'st ; but use enlarges Wis- 
dom's store." 

Unto the sixth : ' ' Wealth tempts to 

evil ways ; 
But the desire of Wisdom is God's 

praise." 

Unto the seventh : ' ' Divide thy wealth, 

each part 
Becomes a pittance. Give with open 

heart 

' ' Thy wisdom, and each separate gift 

shall be 
All that thou hast, yet not impoverish 

thee." 

Unto the eighth: "Wealth cannot 

keep itself ; 
But Wisdom is the steward even of 

pelf." 

Unto the ninth : "The camels slowly 
bring 

Thy goods ; but Wisdom has the swal- 
low's wing." 

And lastly, when the tenth did ques- 
tion make, 

These were the ready words which 
Ali spake : — 

"Wealth is a darkness which the soul 
should fear ; 

But Wisdom is the lamp that makes it 
clear." 

Crimson with shame the questioners 

withdrew, 
And they declared: "The Prophet's 

words were true ; 
The mouth of Ali is the golden 

door 
Of Wisdom." 

When his friends to Ali bore 
These words, he smiled and said : 

"And should they ask 
The same until my dying day, the task 



BEDOUIN SONG 



69 



Were easy ; for the stream from Wis- 
dom's well, 

Which God supplies, is inexhausti- 
ble." 

1854. 



AN ORIENTAL IDYL 

A silver javelin which the hills 
Have hurled upon the plain be- 
low, 

The fleetest of the Pharpar's rills, 
Beneath me shoots in flashing flow. 

I hear the never-ending laugh 
Of jostling waves 'that come and 
go, 
And suck the bubbling pipe, and 
quaff 
The sherbet cooled in mountain 
snow. 

The flecks of sunshine gleam like 
stars 

Beneath the canopy of shade ; 
And in the distant, dim bazaars 

I scarcely hear the hum of trade. 

No evil fear, no dream forlorn, 
Darkens my heaven of perfect 
blue ; 

My blood is tempered to the morn, — 
My very heart is steeped in dew. 

What Evil is I cannot tell ; 

But half I guess what Joy may be ; 
And, as a pearl within its shell, 

The happy spirit sleeps in me. 

I feel no more the pulse's strife, — 
The tides of Passion's ruddy sea, — 

But live the sweet, unconscious life 
That breathes from yonder jasmine 
tree. 

Upon the glittering pageantries 
Of gay Damascus' streets I look 

As idly as a babe that sees 
The painted pictures of a book. 

Forgotten now are name and race ; 

The Past is blotted from my brain ; 
For Memory sleeps, and will not 
trace 

The weary pages o'er again. 



I only know the morning shines, 
And sweet the dewy morning air ; 

But does it play with tendrilled 
vines ? 
Or does it lightly lift my hair ? 

Deep-sunken in the charmed repose, 
This ignorance is bliss extreme : 

And whether I be Man, or Rose, 
Oh, pluck me not from out my 
dream ! 

1854. 



BEDOUIN SONG 

From the Desert I come to thee 

On a stallion shod with fire ; 
And the winds are left behind 

In the speed of my desire. 
Under thy window I stand, 

And the midnight hears my cry : 
I love thee, I love but thee, 
With a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold, 
And the stars are old, 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold ! 

Look from thy window and see 

My passion and my pain ; 
I lie on the sands below, 

And I faint in thy disdain. 
Let the night-winds touch thy brow 
With the heat of my burning 
sigh, 
And melt thee to hear the vow 
Of a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold, 
And the stars are old, 
And the learns of the Judgment 
Booh unfold ! 

My steps are nightly driven, 
By the fever in my breast, 
To hear from thy lattice breathed 

The word that shall give me rest. 
Open the door of thy heart, 

And open thy chamber door, 
And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
The love that shall fade no more 
Till the sun grows cold, 
And the stars are old, 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold ! 

Mozambique Channel, 1853. 



70 POEMS OF THE ORIENT 

DESERT HYMN TO THE SUN 



Under the arches of the morning sky, 
Save in one heart, there beats no 
life of Man ; 
The yellow sand-hills bleak and track- 
less lie, 
And far behind them sleeps the cara- 
van. 
A silence, as before Creation, broods 
Sublimely o'er the desert solitudes. 

ii 

A silence as if God in Heaven were 
still, 
And meditating some new wonder ! 
Earth 
And Air the solemn portent own, and 
thrill 
With awful prescience of the coming 
birth. 
And Night withdraws, and on their 

silver cars > 
Wheel to remotest space the trembling 
Stars. 



See! an increasing brightness, broad 
and fleet, 
Breaks on the morning in a rosy flood, 

As if He smiled to see His work com- 
plete, 
And rested from it, and pronounced 
it good. 

The sands lie still, and every wind is 
furled : 

The Sun comes up, and looks upon 
the world. 

IV 

Is there no burst of music to proclaim 
The pomp and majesty of this new 
lord? — 

A golden trumpet in each beam of 
flame, 
Startling the universe with grand 
accord ? 

Must Earth be dumb beneath the splen- 
dors thrown 

From his full orb to glorify her own ? 



No : with an answering splendor, 
more than sound 
Instinct with gratulation, she adores. 



With purple flame the porphyry hills 
are crowned, 
And burn with gold the Desert's 
boundless floors ; 

And the lone Man compels his haughty 
knee, 

And, prostrate at thy footstool, wor- 
ships thee. 



Before the dreadful glory of thy 

face ; 
He veils his sight : he fears the fiery 

rod 
Which thou dost wield amid the 

brightening space, 
As if the sceptre of a visible god. 
If not the shadow of God's lustre, 

thou 
Art the one jewel flaming on His 

brow. 

VII 

Wrap me within the mantle of thy 
beams, 
And feed my pulses with thy keenest 
fire! 

Here, where thy full meridian deluge 
streams 
Across the Desert, let my blood as- 
pire 

To ripen in the vigor of thy blaze, 

And catch a warmth to shine through 
darker days ! 

vni 

I am alone before thee : Lord of 

Light! 
Begetter of the life of things that 

live ! 
Beget in me thy calm, self-balanced 

might ; 
To me thine own immortal ardor 

give. 
Yea, though, like her who gave to 

Jove her charms, 
My being wither in thy fiery arms. 



Whence came thy splendors ? Heaven 
is filled with thee ; 
The sky's blue walls are dazzling 
with thy train ; 
Thou sitt'st alone in the Immensity, 
And in thy lap the World grows 
young again. 



, 



CAMADEVA 



7* 



Bathed in such brightness, drunken 

with the Day, 
He deems the Dark forever passed 

away. 



But thou dost sheathe thy trenchant 
sword, and lean 
"With tempered grandeur towards 
the western gate ; 

Shedding thy glory with a brow 
serene, 
And leaving heaven all golden with 
thy state : 

Not as a king discrowned and over- 
thrown, 

But one who keeps, and shall reclaim 
his own. 

Indicm Ocean, 1853. 



NILOTIC DRINKING SONG 



You may water your bays, brother- 
poets, with lays 
That brighten the cup from the 
stream you doat on, 
By the Schuylkill's side, or Cochit- 
uate's tide, 
Or the crystal lymph of the moun- 
tain Croton : 

(We may pledge from these 
In our summer ease, 
Nor even Anacreon's shade revile 
us — ) 

But I, from the flood 
Of his own brown blood, 
Will drink to the glory of ancient 
Nilus ! 



Cloud never gave birth, nor cradle the 
Earth, 
To river so grand and fair as this is : 
Not the waves that roll us the gold of 
Pactolus, 
Nor cool Cephissus, nor classic Ilis- 
sus. 

The lily may dip 
Her ivory lip 
To kiss the ripples of clear Eurotas; 
But the Nile brings balm 
From the myrrh and palm, 
And the ripe, voluptuous lips of the 
lotus. 



The waves that ride on his mighty 
tide 
Were poured from the urns of un vis- 
ited mountains ; 
And their sweets of the South mingle 
cool in the mouth 
With the freshness and sparkle of 
Northern fountains. 
Again and again 
The goblet we drain, — 
Diviner a stream never Nereid swam 
on: 

For Isis and Orus 
Have quaffed before us, 
And Ganymede dipped it for Jupiter 
Ammon. 



Its blessing he pours o'er his thirsty 
shores, 
And floods the regions of Sleep and 
Silence, 
When he makes oases in desert 
places, 
And the plain is a sea, the hills are 
islands. 

And had I the brave 
Anacreon's stave, 
And lips like the honeyed lips of 
Hylas, 

I 'd dip from his brink 
My bacchanal drink, 
And sing for the glory of ancient 

Nilus ! 
Nile, Ethiopia, 1852. 



CAMADEVA 

The sun, the moon, the mystic planets 
seven, 
Shone with a purer and serener 
flame, 
And there was joy on Earth and joy in 
Heaven 
When Camadeva came. 

The blossoms burst, like jewels of the 
air, 
Putting the colors of the morn to 
shame ; 
Breathing their odorous secrets every- 
where 
When Camadeva came. 



72 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT 



The birds, upon the tufted tamarind 
spray, 
Sat side by side and cooed in amorous 
blame ; 
The lion sheathed his claws and left 
his prey 
When Camadeva came. 

The sea slept, pillowed on the happy 
shore ; 
The mountain-peaks were bathed in 
rosy flame ; 
The clouds went down the sky, — to 
mount no more 
When Camadeva came. 

The hearts of all men brightened like 
the morn ; 
The poet's harp then first deserved 
its fame, 
For rapture sweeter than he sang was 
born 
When Camadeva came. 

All breathing life a newer spirit 
quaffed 
A second life, a bliss beyond a 
name, 
And Death, half-conquered, dropped 
his idle shaft 
When Camadeva came. 

India, 1853. 



NUBIA 

A land of Dreams and Sleep, — a pop- 
pied land ! 

With skies of endless calm above her 
head, 

The drowsy warmth of summer noon- 
day shed 

Upon her hills, and silence stern and 
grand 

Throughout her Desert's temple-bury- 
ing sand. 

Before her threshold, in their ancient 
place, 

With closed lips, and fixed, majestic 
face 

Noteless of Time, her dumb colossi 
stand. 

Oh, pass them not with light, irrever- 
ent tread ; 

Respect the dream that builds her 
fallen throne, 



And soothes her to oblivion of her woes. 
Hush ! for she does but sleep ; she is 

not dead : 
Action and Toil have made the world 

their own, 
But she hath built an altar to Repose. 

1853. 



KILIMANDJARO 



Hail to thee, monarch of African 

mountains, 
Remote, inaccessible, silent, and 

lone, — 
Who, from the heart of the tropical 

fervors, 
Liftest to heaven thine alien snows, 
Feeding forever the fountains that 

make thee 
Father of Nile and Creator of Egypt ! 



The years of the world are engraved 

on thy forehead ; 
Time's morning blushed red on thy 

first-fallen snows ; 
Yet, lost in the wilderness, nameless, 

unnoted, 
Of Man unbeholden, thou wert not till 

now. 
Knowledge alone is the being of 

Nature, 
Giving a soul to her manifold features, 
Lighting through paths of the primi- 
tive darkness 
The footsteps of Truth and the vision 

of Song. 
Knowledge has born thee anew to 

Creation, 
And long-baffled Time at thy baptism 

rejoices. 
Take, then, a name, and be filled with 

existence, 
Yea, be exultant in sovereign glory, 
While from the hand of the wandering 

poet 
Drops the first garland of song at thy 

feet. 

in 

Floating alone, on the flood of thy 

making, 
Through Africa's mystery, silence, and 

fire, 



THE BIRTH OF THE PROPHET 



73 



Lo ! in my palm, like the Eastern en- 
chanter, 

I dip from the waters a magical mirror, 

And thou art revealed to my purified 
vision. 

I see thee, supreme in the midst of thy 
co-mates, 

Standing alone 'twixt the Earth and 
the Heavens, 

Heir of the Sunset and Herald of 
Morn. 

Zone above zone, to thy shoulders of 
granite, 

The climates of Earth are displayed, 
as an index, 

Giving the scope of the Book of Crea- 
tion. 

There, in the gorges that widen, de- 
scending 

From cloud and from cold into summer 
eternal, 

Gather the threads of the ice-gendered 
fountains, — 

Gather to riotous torrents of crystal, 

And, giving each shelvy recess where 
they dally 

The blooms of the North and its ever- 
green turfage, 

Leap to the land of the lion and lotus! 

There, in the wondering airs of the 
Tropics 

Shivers the Aspen, still dreaming of 
cold : 

There stretches the Oak, from the loft- 
iest ledges, 

His arms to the far-away lands of his 
brothers, 

And the Pine-tree looks down on his 
rival, the Palm. 

IV 

Bathed in the tenderest purple of dis- 
tance, 

Tinted and shadowed by pencils of 
air, 

Thy battlements hang o'er the slopes 
and the forests, 

Seats of the Gods in the limitless ether, 

Looming sublimely aloft and afar. 

Above them, like folds of imperial 
ermine, 

Sparkle the snow-fields that furrow 
thy forehead, — 

Desolate realms, inaccessible, silent, 

Chasms and caverns where Day is a 
stranger, 



Garners where storeth his treasures the 

Thunder, 
The Lightning his falchion, his arrows 

the Hail ! 



Sovereign Mountain, thy brothers give 
welcome : 

They, the baptized and the crowned 
of ages, 

Watch-towers of Continents, altars of 
Earth, 

Welcome thee now to their mighty as- 
sembly. 

Mont Blanc, in the roar of his mad 
avalanches, 

Hails thy accession; superb Orizaba, 

Belted with beech and ensandalled 
with palm ; 

Chimborazo, the lord of the regions of 
noonday, — 

Mingle their sounds in magnificent 
chorus 

With greeting august from the Pillars 
of Heaven, 

Who, in the urns of the Indian Ganges 

Filter the snows of their sacred domin- 
ions, 

Unmarked with a footprint, unseen 
but of God. 



Lo ! unto each is the seal of his lord- 
ship, 

Nor questioned the right that his maj- 
esty giveth : 

Each in his lawful supremacy forces 

Worship and reverence, wonder and 

joy. 

Absolute all, yet in dignity varied, 
None has a claim to the honors of story, 
Or the superior splendors of song, 
Greater than thou, in thy mystery 

mantled, — 
Thou, the sole monarch of African 

mountains, 
Father of Nile and Creator of Egypt ! 

White Nile, 1852. 



THE BIRTH OF THE PROPHET 



Thrice three moons had waxed in 
heaven, thrice three moons had 
waned away, 



74 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT 



Since Abdullah, faint and thirsty, on 
the Desert's bosom lay 

In the fiery lap of Summer, the merid- 
ian of the day ; — 



Since from out the sand upgushing, 
lo ! a sudden fountain leapt ; 

Sweet as musk and clear as amber, to 
his parching lips it crept. 

When he drank it straightway van- 
ished, but his blood its virtue 
kept. 

in 

Ere the morn his forehead's lustre, 
signet of the Prophet's line, 

To the beauty of Amina had trans- 
ferred its flame divine ; 

Of the germ within her sleeping, such 
the consecrated sign. 



And with every moon that faded waxed 

the splendor more and more, 
Till Amina's beauty lightened through 

the matron veil she wore, 
And the tent was filled with glory, 

and of Heaven it seemed the 

door. 



"When her quickened womb its bur- 
den had matured, and Life be- 
gan 

Struggling in its living prison, through 
the wide Creation rang 

Premonitions of the coming of a God- 
appointed man. 

VI 

For the oracles of Nature recognize a 

Prophet's birth, — 
Blossom of ■ the tardy ages, crowning 

type of human worth, — 
And by miracles and wonders he is 

welcomed to the Earth. 



Then the stars in heaven grew brighter. 

stooping downward from their 

zones ; 
Wheeling round the towers of Mecca, 

sang the moon in silver tones, 
And the Kaaba's grisly idols trembled 

on their granite thrones. 



VIII 

Mighty arcs of rainbow splendor, pil- 
lared shafts of purple fire, 

Split the sky and spanned the darkness, 
and with many a golden spire, 

Beacon-like, from all the mountains 
streamed the lambent meteors 
higher. 



But when first the breath of being to 
the sacred infant came, 

Paled the pomp of airy lustre, and the 
stars grew dim with shame, 

For the glory of his countenance out- 
shone their feebler flame. 



Over Ned j id's sands it lightened, unto 
Oman's coral deep, 

Startling all the gorgeous regions of 
the Orient from sleep, 

Till, a sun on night new-risen, it il- 
lumed the Indian steep. 



They who dwelt in Mecca's borders 
saw the distant realms appear 

All around the vast horizon, shining 
marvellous and clear, 

From the gardens of Damascus unto 
those of Bendemeer. 



From the colonnades of Tadmor to 
the hills of Hadramaut, 

Ancient Araby was lighted, and her 
sands the splendor caught, 

Till the magic sweep of vision over- 
took the track of Thought. 

XIII 

Such on Earth the wondrous glory, 
but beyond the sevenfold skies 

God His mansions filled with gladness, 
and the seraphs saw arise 

Palaces of pearl and ruby from the 
founts of Paradise. 



As the surge of heavenly anthems 
shook the solemn midnight air, 

From the shrines of false religions 
came a wailing of despair, 

And the fires on Pagan altars were 
extinguished everywhere. 



HASSAN TO HIS MARE 



75 



'Mid the sounds of salutation, 'mid the 
splendor and the balm, 

Knelt the sacred child, proclaiming, 
with a brow of heavenly calm : 

" God is God ; there is none other ; I 
his chosen Prophet am ! " 

Tadian Ocean, 1853. 



TO THE NILE 

Mysterious Flood, — that through 
the silent sands 
Hast wandered, century on century, 
Watering the length of great Egyptian 
lands, 
Which were not, but for 
thee, — 

Art thou the keeper of that eldest 
lore, 
Written ere yet thy hieroglyphs 
began 
When dawned upon thy fresh, un- 
trampled shore 
The earliest life of Man ? 

Thou guardest temple and vast pyra- 
mid 
Where the gray Past records its 
ancient speech ; 
But in thine unrevealing breast lies 
hid 

What they refuse to teach. 

All other streams with human joys 
and fears 
Run blended, o'er the plains of His- 
tory : 
Thou tak'st no note of Man ; a thou- 
sand years 
Are as a day to thee. 

What were to thee the Osirian festi- 
vals ? 
Or Memnon's music on the Theban 
plain ? 
The carnage, when Cambyses made 
thy halls 

Ruddy with royal slain ? 

Even then thou wast a God, and 
shrines were built 
For worship of thine own majestic 
flood; 



For thee the incense burned, — for 
thee was spilt 
The sacrificial blood. 

And past the bannered pylons that 
arose 
Above thy palms, the pageantry 
and state, 
Thy current flowed, calmly as now it 
flows, 
Unchangeable as Fate. 

Thou givest blessing as a God might 
give, 
Whose being is his bounty : from 
the slime 
Shaken from off thy skirts the nations 
live, 
Through all the years of 
Time. 

In thy solemnity, thine awful calm, 
Thy grand indifference of Destiny, 
My soul forgets its pain, and drinks 
the balm 
Which thou dost proffer me. 

Thy god ship is unquestioned still : I 
bring 
No doubtful worship to thy shrine 
supreme ; 
But thus my homage as a chaplet 
fling, 
To float upon thy stream ! 

1854. 



HASSAN TO HIS MARE 

Come, my beauty! come, my desert 
darling ! 
On my shoulder lay thy glossy 
head! 
Fear not, though the barley-sack be 
empty, 
Here 's the half of Hassan's scanty 
bread. 

Thou shalt have thy share of dates, 
my beauty ! 
And thou know'st my water-skin is 
free: 
Drink and welcome, for the wells are 
distant, 
And my strength and safety lie in 
thee. 



7 6 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT 



Bend thy forehead now, to take my 
- kisses ! 
Lift in love thy dark and splendid 
eye: 
Thou art glad when Hassan mounts 
the saddle, — 
Thou art proud he owns thee: so 
am I. 

Let the Sultan bring his boasted 
horses, 
Prancing with their diamond-stud- 
ded reins ; 
They, my darling, shall not match thy 
fleetness 
"When they course with thee the 
desert-plains ! 

Let the Sultan bring his famous 
horses, 
Let him bring his golden swords to 
me, — 
Bring his slaves, his eunuchs, and his 
harem ; 
He would offer them in vain for 
thee. 

"We have seen Damascus, O my 
beauty ! 
And the splendor of the Pashas 
there : 
"What 's their pomp and riches ? Why, 
I would not 
Take them for a handful of thy 
hair! 

Khaled sings the praises of his mis- 
tress, 
And, because I 've none, he pities me. 
What care I if he should have a thou- 
sand, 
Fairer than the morning ? I have 
thee. 

He will find his passion growing 
cooler, 
Should her glance on other suitors 
fall; 
Thou wilt ne'er, my mistress and my 
darling, 
Fail to answer at thy master's call. 

By and by some snow-white Ned j id 
stallion 
Shall to thee his spring-time ardor 
bring; 



And a foal, the fairest of the Desert, 
To thy milky dugs shall crouch and 
cling. 

Then, when Khaled shows to me his 
children, 
I shall laugh, and bid him look at 
thine ; 
Thou wilt neigh, and lovingly caress 
me, 
With thy glossy neck laid close to 
mine. 

1854. 



CHARMIAN 



Daughter of the Sun ; 

Who gave the keys of passion unto 

thee ? 
Who taught the powerful sorcery 
Wherein my soul, too willing to be 

won, 
Still feebly struggles to be free, 
But more than half undone ? 
Within the mirror of thine eyes, 
Full of the sleep of warm Egyptian 

skies, — 
The sleep of lightning, bound in airy 

spell, 
And deadlier, because invisible, — 

1 see the reflex of a feeling 

Which was not, till I looked on thee : 
A power, involved in mystery, 
That shrinks, affrighted, from its own 
revealing. 



Thou sitt'st in stately indolence, 
Too calm to feel a breath of passion 

start 
The listless fibres of thy sense, 
The fiery slumber of thy heart. 
Thine eyes are wells of darkness, by 

the veil 
Of languid lids half -sealed: the pale 
And bloodless olive of thy face, 
And the full, silent lips that wear 
A ripe serenity of grace, 
Are dark beneath the shadow of thy 

hair. 
Not from the brow of templed Athor 

beams 
Such tropic warmth along the path of 

dreams ; 



TO A PERSIAN BOY 



77 



Not from the lips of horned Isis flows 

Such sweetness of repose ! 

For thou art Passion's self, a goddess 

too, 
And aught but worship never knew ; 
And thus thy glances, calm and sure, 
Look for accustomed homage, and 

betray 
No effort to assert thy sway : 
Thou deem' st my fealty secure. 

in 

Sorceress ! those looks unseal 
The undisturbed mysteries that press 
Too deep in nature for the heart to 

feel 
Their terror and their loveliness. 
Thine eyes are torches that illume 
On secret shrines their unforeboded 

fires, 
And fill the vaults of silence and of 

gloom 
With the unresting life of new desires. 

1 follow where their arrowy ray 
Pierces the veil I would not tear away, 
And with a dread, delicious awe behold 
Another gate of life unfold, 

Like the rapt neophyte who sees 
Some march of grand Osirian mys- 
teries. 
The startled chambers I explore, 
And every entrance open lies, 
Forced by the magic thrill that runs 

before 
Thy slowly-lifted eyes. 
I tremble to the centre of my being 
Thus to confess the spirit's poise o'er- 

thrown, 
And all its guiding virtues blown 
Like leaves before the whirlwind's 
fury fleeing. 



But see ! one memory rises in my 

soul, 
And, beaming steadily and clear, 
Scatters the lurid thunder-clouds that 

roll 
Through Passion's sultry atmosphere. 
An alchemy more potent borrow 
For thy dark eyes, enticing Sorceress! 
For on the casket of a sacred Sorrow 
Their shafts fall powerless. 
Nay, frown not, Athor, from thy 

mystic shrine : 
Strong Goddess of Desire, I will not be 



One of the myriad slaves thou callest 
thine, 

To cast my manhood's crown of roy- 
alty 

Before thy dangerous beauty : I am 
free ! 

East Indies, 1853. 



SMYRNA 

The "Ornament of Asia" and the 
" Crown 

Of fair Ionia. " Yea; but Asia stands 

No more an empress, and Ionia's 
hands 

Have lost their sceptre. Thou, ma- 
jestic town, 

Art as a diamond on a faded robe : 

The freshness of thy beauty scatters 
yet 

The radiance of that sun of Empire 
set, 

Whose disk sublime illumed the an- 
cient globe. 

Thou sitt'st between the mountains 
and the sea ; 

The sea and mountains flatter thine 
array, 

And fill thy courts with Grandeur, 
not Decay ; 

And Power, not Death, proclaims thy 
cypress tree. 

Through thee, the sovereign symbols 
Nature lent 

Her rise, make Asia's fall magnificent. 

1851. 



TO A PERSIAN BOY 

IN THE BAZAAR AT SMYRNA 

The gorgeous blossoms of that magic 

tree 
Beneath whose shade I sat a thousand 

nights, 
Breathed from their opening petals all 

delights 
Embalmed in spice of Orient Poesy, 
When first, young Persian, I beheld 

thine eyes, 
And felt the wonder of thy beauty 

grow 
Within my brain, as some fair planet's 

glow 



78 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT 



Deepens, and fills the summer evening 

skies. 
From under thy dark lashes shone on 

me 
The rich, voluptuous soul of Eastern 

land, 
Impassioned, tender, calm, serenely 

sad, — 
Such as immortal Hafiz felt when 

he 
Sang by the fountain-streams of Roc- 

nabad, 
Or in the bowers of blissful Samarcand. 

1851. 



THE ARAB TO THE PALM 

Next to thee, O fair gazelle, 

O Beddowee girl, beloved so well ; 

Next to the fearless Ned j idee, 
Whose fleetness shall bear me again to 
thee ; 

Next to ye both I love the Palm, 
With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of 
balm ; 

Next to ye both I love the Tree 
Whose fluttering shadow wraps us 

three 
With love, and silence, and mys- 
tery! 

Our tribe is many, our poets vie 

With any under the Arab sky ; 

Yet none can sing of the Palm but I. 

The marble minarets that begem 

Cairo's citadel-diadem 

Are not so light as his slender stem. 

He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's 

glance 
As the Almehs lift their arms in 

dance, — 

A slumberous motion, a passionate 

sign, 
That works in the cells of the blood 

like wine. 

Full of passion and sorrow is he, 
Dreaming where the beloved may 
be. 



And when the warm south-winds 

arise, 
He breathes his longing in fervid 

"lS, — 



Quickening odors, kisses of balm, 
That drop in the lap of his chosen 
palm. 

The sun may flame and the sands may 

stir, 
But the breath of his passion reaches 

her. 

O Tree of Love, by that love of 

thine, 
Teach me how I shall soften mine ! 

Give me the secret of the sun, 
Whereby the wooed is ever won ! 

If I were a King, O stately Tree, 
A likeness, glorious as might be, 
In the court of my palace I 'd build 
for thee ! 

With a shaft of silver, burnished 

bright, 
And leaves of beryl and malachite ; 

With spikes of golden bloom ablaze, 
And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase : 

And there the poets, in thy praise, 
Should night and morning frame new 
lays, — 

New measures sung to tunes divine, 
But none, O Palm, should equal mine ! 

Off Japan, 1853. 



AURUM POTABILE 



Brother Bards of every region, — 
Brother Bards, (your name is Legion]) 
Were you with me while the twi- 
light 
Darkens up my pine-tree skylight, — 
Were you gathered, representing 

Every land beneath the sun, 
O, what songs would be indited, 
Ere the earliest star is lighted, 
To the praise of vino d'oro, 

On the Hills of Lebanon 1 



ON THE SEA 



79 



Yes ; while all alone I quaff its 
Lucid gold, and brightly laugh its 
Topaz waves and amber bubbles, 
Still the thought my pleasure troubles, 

That I quaff it all alone. 
O for Hafiz, — glorious Persian ! 
Keats, with buoyant, gay diversion 
Mocking Schiller's grave immersion ; 

O for wreathed Anacreon ! 
Yet enough to have the living, — 
They, the few, the rapture-giving ! 
(Blessed more than in receiving, ) 
Fate, that frowns when laurels 

wreathe them, 
Once the solace might bequeath them, 
Once to taste of vino d'oro 

On the Hills of Lebanon ! 



Lebanon, thou mount of story, 

Well we know thy sturdy glory, 
Since the days of Solomon ; 

Well we know the Five old Cedars, 

Scarred by ages, — silent pleaders, 

Preaching, in their gray sedateness, 

Of thy forest's fallen greatness, 

Of the vessels of the Tyrian, 

And the palaces Assyrian, 

And the temple on Moriah 

To the High and Holy One ! 

Know the wealth of thy appoint- 
ment, — 

Myrrh and aloes, gum and ointment ; 

But we knew not, till we clomb 
thee, 

Of the nectar dropping from thee, — 

Of the pure, pellucid Ophir 

In the cups of vino d'oro, 

On the Hills of Lebanon ! 



We have drunk, and we have eaten, 
Where Egyptian sheaves are beaten ; 
Tasted Judah's milk and honey 
On his mountains, bare and sunny ; 
Drained ambrosial bowls, that ask 

us 
Never more to leave Damascus ; 
And have sung a vintage psean 
To the grapes of isles ^Egean, 
And the flasks of Orvieto, 

Ripened in the Roman sun: 
But the liquor here surpasses 
All that beams in earthly glasses. 
'T is of this that Paracelsus 



(His elixir vit?e) tells us, 
That to happier shores can float us 
Than Lethean stems of lotus, 
And the vigor of the morning 

Straight restores when day is 
done. 
Then, before the sunset waneth, 
While the rosy tide, that staineth 
Earth, and sky, and sea, remaineth, 
We will take the fortune proffered, — 
Ne'er again to be re-offered, 
We will drink of vino d'oro, 

On the Hills of Lebanon ! 
Vino d'oro ! vino d'oro ! — 

Golden blood of Lebanon ! 

1853. 



ON THE SEA 

The splendor of the sinking moon 

Deserts the silent bay ; 
The mountain-isles loom large and 
faint, 
Folded in shadows gray, 
And the lights of land are setting 
stars 
That soon will pass away. 

boatman, cease thy mellow song ! 

O minstrel, drop thy lyre ! 
Let us hear the voice of the midnight 
sea, 
Let us speak as the waves in- 
spire, 
While the plashy dip of the languid 
oar 
Is a furrow of silver fire. 

Day cannot make thee half so fair, 
Nor the stars of eve so dear : 

The arms that clasp and the breast 
that keeps, 
They tell me thou art near, 

And the perfect beauty of thy face 
In thy murmured words I hear. 

The lights of land have dropped be- 
low 
The vast and glimmering sea; 
The world we leave is a tale that is 
told,— 
A fable, that cannot be. 
There is no life in the sphery dark 
But the love in thee and me ! 

Macao, 1853. 



8o 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT 



TYRE 



The wild and windy morning is lit 

with lurid fire ; 
The thundering surf of ocean beats on 

the rocks of Tyre, — 
Beats on the fallen columns and round 

the headland roars, 
And hurls its foamy volume along the 

hollow shores, 
And calls' with hungry clamor, that 

speaks its long desire : 
"Where are the ships of Tarshish, the 

mighty ships of Tyre ? " 



Within her cunning harbor, choked 
with invading sand, 

No galleys bring their freightage, the 
spoils of every land, 

And like a prostrate forest, when au- 
tumn gales have blown, 

Her colonnades of granite lie shattered 
and o'erthrown ; 

And from the reef the pharos no longer 
flings its fire, 

To beacon home from Tarshish the 
lordly ships of Tyre. 



Where is thy rod of empire, once 

mighty on the waves, — 
Thou that thyself exalted, till Kings 

bacame thy slaves ? 
Thou that didst speak to nations, and 

saw thy will obeyed, — 
Whose favor made them joyful, whose 

anger sore afraid, — 
Who laid'st thy deep foundations, and 

thought them strong and sure, 
And boasted midst the waters, Shall I 

not aye endure ? 



Where is the wealth of ages that 
heaped thy princely mart ? 

The pomp of purple trappings; the 
gems of Syrian art ; 

The silken goats of Kedar ; Sabsea's 
spicy store ; 

The tributes of the islands thy squad- 
rons homeward bore, 

When in thy gates triumphant they 
entered from the sea 

With sound of horn and sackbut, of 
harp and psaltery ? 



Howl, howl, ye ships of Tarshish ! the 

glory is laid waste : 
There is no habitation ; the mansions 

are defaced. 
No mariners of Sidon unfurl your 

mighty sails ; 
No workmen fell the fir-trees that grow 

in Shenir's vales 
And Bashan's oaks that boasted a 

thousand years of sun, 
Or hew the masts of cedar on frosty 

Lebanon. 



Rise, thou forgotten harlot ! take up 
thy harp and sing : 

Call the rebellious islands to own their 
ancient king : 

Bare to the spray thy bosom, and with 
thy hair unbound, 

Sit on the piles of ruin, thou throne- 
less and discrowned ! 

There mix thy voice of wailing with 
the thunders of the sea, 

And sing thy songs of sorrow, that 
thou remembered be ! 



Though silent and forgotten, yet 

Nature still laments 
The pomp and power departed, the 

lost magnificence : 
The hills were proud to see thee, and 

they are sadder now ; 
The sea was proud to bear thee, and 

wears a troubled brow, 
And evermore the surges chant forth 

their vain desire : 
"Where are the ships of Tarshish, the 

mighty ships of Tyre ? " 

Indian Ocean, 1853. 



AN ANSWER 

You call me cold : you wonder why 
The marble of a mien like mine 

Gives fiery sparks of Poesy, 
Or softens at Love's touch divine. 

Go, look on Nature, you will find 
It is the rock that feels the sun : 

But you are blind, — and to the 
blind 
The touch of ice and fire is one. 

1852. 



L'ENVOI 



GULISTAN 

AN ARABIC METRE 

Where is Gulistan, the Land of 
Roses ? 
Not on hills where Northern 

winters 
Break their spears in icy splinters, 
And in shrouded snow the world re- 
poses ; 
But amid the glow and splendor 
"Which the Orient summers lend 
her, 
Blue the heaven above her beauty 

closes : 
There is Gulistan, the Land of Roses. 

Northward stand the Persian 

mountains ; 
Southward spring the silver foun- 
tains 
Which to Hafiz taught his sweetest 
measures, 
Clearly ringing to the singing 
Which the nightingales delight in, 
When the spring, from Oman 
winging 
Unto Shiraz, showers her fragrant 
treasures 
On the land, till valleys brighten, 
Mountains lighten with returning 
Fires of scarlet poppy burning, 
And the stream meanders 
Through its roseate oleanders, 
And Love's golden gate, unf olden, 
Opens on a universe of pleasures. 

There the sunshine blazes over 
Meadows gemmed with ruby clo- 
ver; 
There the rose's heart uncloses, 
Prodigal with hoarded stores of sweet- 
ness, 
And the lily's cup so still is 
Where the river's waters quiver, 
That no wandering air can spill 
his 
Honeyed balm, or blight his beauty's 
fleetness. 
Skies are fairest, days are rar- 
est, — 
Thou, O Earth ! a glory wearest 
From the ecstasy thou bearest, 
Once to feel the Summer's full com- 
pleteness. 



Twilight glances, moonlit dances, 
Song by starlight, there entrances 
Youthful hearts with fervid fan- 
cies, 
And the blushing rose of Love un- 
closes : 
Love that, lapped in summer joy- 

ance, 
Far from every rude annoyance, 
Calmly on the answering love reposes ; 
And in song, in music only 
Speaks the longing, vague and 

lonely, 
Which to pain is there the nearest, 
Yet of joys the sweetest, dearest, 
As a cloud when skies are clearest 
On its folds intenser light discloses: 
This is Gulistan, the Land of Roses. 

1853. 



L'ENVOI 

Unto the Desert and the Desert steed 
Farewell ! The journey is completed 
now : 
Struck are the tents of Ishmael's wan- 
dering breed, 
And I unwind the turban from my 
brow. 

The sun has ceased to shine ; the 
palms that bent, 
Inebriate with light, have disap- 
peared ; 
And naught is left me of the Orient 
But the tanned bosom and the un- 
shorn beard. 

Yet from that life my blood a glow 
retains, 
As the red sunshine in the ruby 
glows ; 
These songs are echoes of its fiercer 
strains, — 
Dreams, that recall its passion and 
repose. 

I found, among those Children of the 
Sun, 
The cipher of my nature, — the re- 
lease 
Of baffled powers, which else had 
never won 
That free fulfilment, whose reward 
is peace. 



82 



POEMS OF THE ORIENT 



For not to any race or any clime 
Is the completed sphere of life re- 
vealed ; 
He who would make his own that 
round sublime, 
Must pitch his tent on many a dis- 
tant field. 

Upon his home a dawning lustre 
beams, 
But through the world he walks to 
open day, 
Gathering from every land the prismal 
gleams, 
"Which, when united, form the per- 
fect ray. 



Go, therefore, Songs ! — which in the 
East were born 
And drew your nurture — from your 
sire's control : 
Haply to wander through the West 
forlorn, 
Or find a shelter in some Orient soul. 

And if the temper of our colder sky 
Less warmth of passion and of 
speech demands, 
They are the blossoms of my life, — 
and I 
Have ripened in the suns of many 
lands. 

1854. 



LATER POEMS 



LYRICS 

1854-1860 



PORPHYROGENITUS 



Bokn* in the purple ! born in the pur- 
ple ! 
Heir to the sceptre and crown ! 
Lord over millions and niillons of vas- 
sals, — 
Monarch of mighty renown ! 
Where, do you ask, are my banner- 
proud castles ? 
"Where my imperial town? 



Where are the ranks of my far-flashing 
lances, — 
Trumpets, courageous of sound, — 
Galloping squadrons and rocking ar- 
madas, 
Guarding my kingdom around ? 
Where are the pillars that blazon my 
borders, 
Threatening the alien ground ? 



Vainly you ask, if you wear not the 
purple, 
Sceptre and diadem own ; 
Ruling, yourself, over prosperous re- 
gions, 
Seated supreme on your throne. 
Subjects have nothing to give but 
allegiance: 
Monarchs meet monarchs alone. 

IV 

But, if a king, you shall stand on my 
ramparts, 
Look on the lands that I 
sway, 
Number the domes of magnificent 
cities, 
Shining in valleys away, — 



Number the mountains whose fore- 
heads are golden, 
Lakes that are azure with day. 



Whence I inherited such a dominion ? 

What was my forefathers' line ? 
Homer and Sophocles, Pindar and 
Sappho, 
First were anointed divine : 
Theirs were the realms that a god 
might have governed, 
Ah, and how little is mine ! 

YI 

Hafiz in Orient shared with Petrarca 
Thrones of the East and the 
West; 
Shakespeare succeeded to limitless 
empire, 
Greatest of monarchs, and best : 
Few of his children inherited king- 
doms, 
Provinces only, the rest. 

YII 

Keats has his vineyards, and Shelley 
his islands ; 
Coleridge in Xanadu reigns ; 
Wordsworth is eyried aloft on the 
mountains, 
Goethe has mountains and plains ; 
Yet, though the world has been par- 
celled among them, 
A world to be parcelled remains. 

VIII 

Blessing enough to be born in the 

purple, 

Though but a monarch in name, — 

Though in the desert my palace is 

builded, 

Far from the highways of Fame : 



86 



LYRICS 



Up with my standards ! salute me with 
trumpets ! 
Crown me with regal acclaim ! 

1855. 



THE SONG OF THE CAMP 

" Give us a song! " the soldiers cried, 
The outer trenches guarding, 

When the heated guns of the camps 
allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 
Lay, grim and threatening, under ; 

And the tawny mound of the Mala- 
koff 
No longer belched its thunder. . 

There was a pause. A guardsman 
said 

" We storm the forts to-morrow ; 
Sing while we may, another day 

Will bring enough of sorrow." 

They lay along the battery's side, 
Below the smoking cannon: 

Brave hearts, from Severn and from 
Clyde, 
And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame ; 

Forgot was Britain's glory : 
Each heart recalled a different name, 

But all sang "Annie Laurie." 

Voice after voice caught up the song, 

Until its tender passion 
Rose like an anthem, rich and 
strong, — 

Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not 
speak, 

But, as the song grew louder, 
Something upon the soldier's cheek 

Washed off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 
The bloody sunset's embers, 

While the Crimean valleys learned 
How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 
Rained on the Russian quarters, 



With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
And bellowing of the mortars ! 

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 
For a singer, dumb and gory ; 

And English Mary mourns for him 
Who sang of "Annie Laurie." 

Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest 
Your truth and valor wearing : 

The bravest are the tenderest, — 
The loving are the daring. 

1856. 



ICARUS 



Io triumphe ! Lo, thy certain art, 

My crafty sire, releases us at length ! 

False Minos now may knit his baffled 
brows, 

And in the labyrinth by thee devised 

His brutish horns in angry search may 
toss 

The Minotaur, — but thou and I are 
free! 

See where it lies, one dark spot on the 
breast 

Of plains far-shining in the long-lost 
day, 

Thy glory and our prison ! Either 
hand 

Crete, with her hoary mountains, 
olive-clad 

In twinkling silver, 'twixt the vine- 
yard rows, 

Divides the glimmering seas. On 
Ida's top 

The sun, discovering first an earthly 
throne, 

Sits down in splendor ; lucent vapors 
rise 

From folded glens among the awak- 
ing hills, 

Expand their hovering films, and 
touch, and spread 

In airy planes beneath us, hearths of 
air 

Whereon the Morning burns her hun- 
dred fires. 

ii 
Take thou thy way between the cloud 

and wave. 
O Daedalus, my father, steering forth 



ICARUS 



87 



To friendly Samos, or the Carian 

shore ! 
But me the spaces of the upper heaven 
Attract, the height, the freedom, and 

the joy. 
For now, from that dark treachery 

escaped, 
And tasting power which was the lust 

of youth, 
Whene'er the Avhite blades of the 

sea-gull's wings 
Flashed round the headland, or the 

"barbed files 
Of cranes returning clanged across the 

sky, 
No half-way flight, no errand incom- 
plete 
I purpose. Not, as once in dreams, 

with pain 
I mount, with fear and huge exertion 

hold 
Myself a moment, ere the sickening 

fall 
Breaks in the shock of waking. 

Launched, at last, 
Uplift on powerful wings, I veer and 

float 
Past sunlit isles of cloud, that dot 

with light 
The boundless archipelago of sky. 
I fan the airy silence till it starts 
In rustling whispers, swallowed up 

as soon ; 
I warm the chilly ether with my 

breath ; 
I with the beating of my heart make 

glad 
The desert blue. Have I not raised 

myself 
Unto this height, and shall I cease to 

soar? 
The curious eagles wheel about my 

path: 
With sharp and questioning eyes they 

stare at me, 
With harsh, impatient screams they 

menace me, 
Who, with these vans of cunning 

workmanship 
Broad-spread, adventure on their high 

domain, — 
Now mine, as well. Henceforth, ye 

clamorous birds, 
I claim the azure empire of the air ! 
Henceforth I breast the current of the 

morn, 



Between her crimson shores: a star, 

henceforth, 
Upon the crawling dwellers of the 

earth 
My forehead shines. The steam of 

sacred blood, 

noke 

laid, 

Fumes of the temple-wine, and sprin- 
kled myrrh, 
Shall reach my palate ere they reach 

the Gods. 



Nay, am not I a God? What other 
wing, 

If not a God's, could in the rounded 
sky 

Hang thus in solitary poise ? What 
need, 

Ye proud Immortals, that my balanced 
plumes 

Should grow, like yonder eagle's from 
the nest ? 

It may be, ere my crafty father's line 

Sprang from Erectheus, some artificer, 

Who found you roaming wingless on 
the hills, 

Naked, asserting godship in the dearth 

Of loftier claimants, fashioned you 
the same. 

Thence did you seize Olympus : 
thence your pride 

Compelled the race of men, your 
slaves, to tear 

The temple from the mountain's mar- 
ble womb, 

To carve you shapes more beautiful 
than they, 

To sate your idle nostrils with the reek 

Of gums and spices, heaped on jew- 
elled gold. 



Lo, where Hyperion, through the 
glowing air 

Approaching, drives ! Fresh from his 
banquet-meats, 

Flushed with Olympian nectar, an- 
grily 

He guides his fourfold span of furious 
steeds, 

Convoyed by that bold Hour whose 
ardent torch 

Burns up the dew, toward the narrow 
beach, 



88 



LYRICS 



This long, projecting spit of cloudy 

gold 
Whereon I wait to greet him when 

he comes. 
Think not I fear thine anger : this 

day, thou, 
Lord of the silver bow, shalt bring a 

guest 
To sit in presence of the equal Gods 
In your high hall: wheel but thy 

chariot near, 
That I may mount beside thee ! 

What is this ? 

I hear the crackling hiss of singed 

plumes ! 
The stench of burning feathers stifles 

me! 
My loins are stung with drops of 

molten wax ! — 
Ai ! ai ! my ruined vans ! — I fall ! I die ! 

Ere the blue noon o'erspanned the 

bluer strait 
Which parts Icaria from Samos, fell, 
Amid the silent wonder of the air, 
Fell with a shock that startled the 

still wave, 
A shrivelled wreck of crisp, entangled 

plumes, 
A head whence eagles' beaks had 

plucked the eyes, 
And clots of wax, black limbs by 

eagles torn 
In falling : and a circling eagle 

screamed 
Around that floating horror of the sea 
Derision, and above Hyperion shone. 

I860. 



THE BATH 

Off, fetters of the falser life, — 
Weeds, that conceal the statue's 
form! 
This silent world with truth is rife, 
This wooing air is warm. 

Now fall the thin disguises, planned 
For men too weak to walk un- 
blamed : 
Naked beside the sea I stand, — 
Naked and not ashamed. 

Where yonder dancing billows dip, 
Far-off, to ocean's misty verge, 



Ploughs Morning, like a full-sailed 
ship, 
The Orient's cloudy surge. 

With spray of scarlet fire before 

The ruffled gold that round her dies, 
She sails above the sleeping shore, 
Across the waking skies. 

The dewy beach beneath her glows ; 
A pencilled beam, the lighthouse 
burns : 
Full-breathed, the fragrant sea-wind 
blows, — 
Life to the world returns ! 

I stand, a spirit newly -born, 
White-limbed and pure, and strong, 
and fair ; 
The first-begotten son of Morn, 
The nursling of the air ! 

There, in a heap, the masks of Earth, 
The cares, the sins, the griefs, are 
thrown : 
Complete, as through diviner birth, 
I walk the sands alone. 

With downy hands the winds caress, 
With frothy lips the amorous sea, 
As welcoming the nakedness 
Of vanished gods, in me. 

Along the ridged and sloping sand, 
Where headlands clasp the crescent 
cove, 
A shining spirit of the land, 
A snowy shape, I move : 

Or, plunged in hollow-rolling brine, 

In emerald cradles rocked and swung, 
The sceptre of the sea is mine, 
And mine his endless song. 

For Earth with primal dew is wet, 
Her long-lost child to rebaptize ; 
Her fresh, immortal Edens yet 
Their Adam recognize. 

Her ancient freedom is his fee ; 

Her ancient beauty is his dower : 

She bares her ample breasts, that he 

May suck the milk of power. 

Press on, ye hounds of life, that lurk 
So close, to seize your harried prey, 



THE PALM AND THE PINE 



89 



Ye fiends of Custom, Gold, and 
Work, — 
I hear your distant bay ! 

And, like the Arab, when he bears 

To the insulted camel's path 
His garment, which the camel tears, 
And straight forgets his wrath ; 

So, yonder badges of your sway, 
Life's paltry husks, to you I 
give: 
Fall on, and in your blindness say : 
We hold the fugitive ! 

But leave to me this brief escape 
To simple manhood, pure and 
free, — 
A child of God, in God's own shape, 
Between the land and sea ! 

I860. 



THE FOUNTAIN OF TREVI 

The Coliseum lifts at night 
Its broken cells more proudly far 

Than in the noonday's naked light, 
For every rent enshrines a star : 
On Caesar's hill the royal Lar 

Presides within his mansion old : 
Decay and Death no longer mar 

The moon's atoning mist of gold. 

Still lingering near the shrines re- 
newed, 

We sadly, fondly, look our last ; 
Each trace concealed of spoilage rude 

From old or late iconoclast, 

Till, Trajan's whispering forum 
passed, 
We hear the waters, showering bright, 

Of Trevi's ancient fountain, cast 
Their woven music on the night. 

The Genius of the Tiber nods 

Benign, above his tilted urn ; 
Kneel down and drink ! the beckoning 
gods 
This last libation will not spurn. 
Drink, and the old enchantment 
learn 
That hovers yet o'er Trevi's foam, — 

The promise of a sure return, 
Fresh footsteps in the dust of 
Rome! 



Kneel down and drink! the golden 
days 
Here lived and dreamed, shall dawn 
again : 
Albano's hill, through purple haze, 
Again shall crown the Latin plain. 
Whatever stains of Time remain, 
Left by the years that intervene, 
Lo ! Trevi's fount shall toss its 
rain 
To wash the pilgrim's forehead clean. 

Drink, and depart! for Life is just : 
She gives to Faith a master-key 

To ope the gate of dreams august, 
And take from joys in memory 
The certainty of joys to be : 

And Trevi's basins shall be bare 
Ere we again shall fail to see 

Their silver in the Roman air. 



PROPOSAL 

The violet loves a sunny bank, 

The cowslip loves the lea ; 
The scarlet creeper loves the elm, 
But I love — thee. 

The sunshine kisses mount and vale, 

The stars, they kiss the sea ; 
The west winds kiss the clover bloom, 
But I kiss — thee ! 

The oriole weds his mottled mate ; 

The lily 's bride o' the bee ; 
Heaven's marriage-ring is round the 
earth — 
Shall I wed thee ? 

1859. 



THE PALM AND THE PINE 

When Peter led the First Crusade, 
A Norseman wooed an Arab maid. 

He loved her lithe and palmy grace, 
And the dark beauty of her face : 

She loved his cheeks, so ruddy fair, 
His sunny eyes and yellow hair. 

He called: she left her father's tent; 
She followed wheresoe'er he went. 



9° 



LYRICS 



She left the palms of Palestine 
To sit beneath the Norland pine. 

She sang the musky Orient strains 
Where Winter swept the snowy plains. 

Their natures met like Night and 

Morn 
What time the morning-star is born. 

The child that from their meeting 

grew 
Hung, like that star, between the two. 

The glossy night his mother shed 
From her long hair was on his head : 

But in its shade they saw arise 
The morning of his father's eyes. 

Beneath the Orient's tawny stain 
Wandered the Norseman's crimson 
vein : 

Beneath the Northern force was seen 
The Arab sense, alert and keen. 

His were the Viking's sinewy hands, 
The arching foot of Eastern lands. 

And in his soul conflicting strove 
Northern indifference, Southern love; 

The chastity of temperate blood, 
Impetuous passion's fiery flood ; 

The settled faith that nothing shakes, 
The jealousy a breath awakes ; 

The planning Reason's sober gaze, 
And fancy's meteoric blaze. 

And stronger, as he grew to man, 
The contradicting natures ran, — 

As mingled streams from Etna flow, 
One born of fire, and one of snow. 

And one impelled, and one withheld, 
And one obeyed, and one rebelled. 

One gave him force, the other fire ; 
This self-control, and that desire. 

One filled his heart with fierce unrest ; 
With peace serene the other blessed. 



He knew the depth and knew the 

height, 
The bounds of darkness and of light ; 

And who these far extremes has seen 
Must needs know all that lies be- 
tween. 

So, with untaught, instinctive art, 
He read the myriad-natured heart. 

He met the men of many a land ; 
They gave their souls into his hand ; 

And none of them was long unknown 
The hardest lesson was his own. 

But how he lived, and where, and 

when 
It matters not to other men ; 

For, as a fountain disappears, 
To gush again in later years, 

So hidden blood may find the day, 
When centuries have rolled away ; 

And fresher lives betray at last 
The lineage of a far-off Past. 

That nature, mixed of sun and snow 
Repeats its ancient ebb and flow : 

The children of the Palm and Pine 
Renew their blended lives — in mine. 

1855. 



THE VINEYARD-SAINT 

She, pacing down the vineyard walks, 
Put back the branches, one by one, 

Stripped the dry foliage from the 
stalks, 
And gave their bunches to the sun. 

On fairer hillsides, looking south, 
The vines were brown with canker- 
ous rust, 
The earth was hot with summer drouth, 
And all the grapes were dim with 
dust. 

Yet here some blessed influence rained 
From kinder skies, the 
through ; 



ON LEAVING CALIFORNIA 



9i 



On every bunch the bloom remained, 
And every leaf was washed in dew. 

I saw her blue ej^es, clear and calm ; 

I saw the aureole of her hair ; 
I heard her chant some unknown 
psalm, 

In triumph half, and half in prayer. 

" Hail, maiden of the vines ! " I cried : 
" Hail, Oread of the purple hill ! 

For vineyard fauns too fair a bride, 
For me thy cup of welcome fill ! 

"Unlatch the wicket ; let me in, 
And, sharing, make thy toil more 
dear: 
No riper vintage holds the bin 
Than that our feet shall trample 
here. 

" Beneath thy beauty's light I glow, 

As in the sun those grapes of thine : 
Touch thou my heart with love, and 
lo! 
The foaming must is turned to 
wine ! " 

She, pausing, stayed her careful task, 
And, lifting eyes of steady ray, 

Blew, as a wind the mountain's mask 
Of mist, my cloudy words away. 

No troubled flush o'erran her cheek ; 

But when her quiet lips did stir, 
My heart knelt down to hear her speak, 

And mine the blush I sought in her. 

" Oh, not for me," she said, " the vow 
So lightly breathed, to break erelong; 

The vintage-garland on the brow ; 
The revels of the dancing throng ! 

" To maiden love I shut my heart, 
Yet none the less a stainless bride ; 

I work alone, I dwell apart, 
Because my work is sanctified. 

" A virgin hand must tend the vine, 
By virgin feet the vat be trod, 

"Whose consecrated gush of wine 
Becomes the blessed blood of God ! 

" No sinful purple here shall stain, 
Nor juice profane these grapes 
afford ; 



But reverent lips their sweetness 
drain 
Around the Table of the Lord. 

" The cup I fill, of chaster gold, 
Upon the lighted altar stands ; 

There, when the gates of heaven un- 
fold, 
The priest exalts it in his hands. 

" The censer yields adoring breath, 
The awful anthem sinks and dies, 

While God, who suffered life and 
death, 
Renews His ancient sacrifice. 

" O sacred garden of the vine ! 

And blessed she, ordained to press 
God's chosen vintage, for the wine 

Of pardon and of holiness ! " 

I860. 



ON LEAVING CALIFORNIA 

O fair young land, the youngest, 
fairest far 
Of which our world can boast, — 
Whose guardian planet, Evening's 
silver star 
Illumes thy golden coast, — 

How art thou conquered, tamed in all 
the pride 
Of savage beauty still ! 
How brought, panther of the splen« 
did hide, 
To know thy master's will ! 

No more thou sittest on thy tawny 
hills 
In indolent repose ; 
Or pour'st the crystal of a thousand 
rills 
Down from thy house of snows. 

But where the wild-oats wrapped thy 
knees in gold, 
The ploughman drives his share, 
And where, through canons deep, thy 
streams are rolled, 
The miner's arm is bare. 

Yet in thy lap, thus rudely rent and 
torn 
A nobler seed shall be ; 



9 2 



LYRICS 



Mother of mighty men, thou shalt not 
mourn 
Thy lost virginity ! 

Thy human children shall restore the 
grace 

Gone with thy fallen pines : 
The wild, barbaric beauty of thy face 

Shall round to classic lines. 

And Order, Justice, Social Law shall 
curb 
Thy untamed energies ; 
And Art and Science, with their 
dreams superb, 
Replace thine ancient ease. 

The marble, sleeping in thy mountains 
now, 
Shall live in sculptures rare ; 
Thy native oak shall crown the sage's 
brow, — 
Thy bay, the poet's hair. 

Thy tawny hills shall bleed their 
purple wine, 

Thy valleys yield their oil ; 
And Music, with her eloquence divine, 

Persuade thy sons to toil. 

Till Hesper, as he trims his silver 
beam, 
No happier land shall see, 
And Earth shall find her old Arcadian 
dream 
Restored again in thee ! 



WIND AND SEA 



The sea is a jovial comrade, 

He laughs wherever he goes ; 
His merriment shines in the dimpling 
lines 
That wrinkle his hale repose ; 
He lays himself down at the feet of 
the Sun, 
And shakes all over with glee, 
And the broad-backed billows fall 
faint on the shore, 
In the mirth of the mighty Sea ! 



But the "Wind is sad and restless, 
And cursed with an inward pain 



You may hark as you will, by valley 
or hill, 
But you hear him still complain. 
He wails on the barren mountains, 
And shrieks on the wintry sea ; 
He sobs in the cedar, and moans in 
the pine, 
And shudders all over the aspen 
tree. 



Welcome are both their voices, 

And I know not which is best, — 
The laughter that slips from the 
Ocean's lips, 

Or the comfortless Wind's unrest. 
There 's a pang in all rejoicing, 

A joy in the heart of pain, 
And the Wind that saddens, the Sea 
that gladdens, 

Are singing the selfsame strain. 

1855. 

- MY DEAD 

Give back the soul of youth once 
more ! 
The years are fleeting fast away, 
And this brown hair will soon be 
gray, 
These cheeks be pale and furrowed 



Ah, no, the child is long since dead, 
Whose light feet spurred the lag- 
gard years, 
Who breathed in future atmos- 
pheres, 
Ere Youth's eternal Present fled. 

Dead lies the boy, whose timid eye 
Shunned every face that spake not 

love; 
Whose simple vision looked above, 

And saw a glory in the sky. 

And now the youth has sighed his last ; 
I see him cold upon his bier, 
But in these eyes there is no tear : 

He j oins his brethren of the Past. 

'T was time he died : the gates of Art 
Had shut him from the temple's 

shrine, 
And now I climb her mount divine, 

But with the sinews, not the heart. 



STUDIES FOR PICTURES 



93 



How many more, O Life ! shall I 
In future offer up to thee ? 
And shall they perish utterly, 

Upon whose graves I clomb so high ? 

Say, shall I not at last attain 
Some height, from whence the Past 

is clear, 
In whose immortal atmosphere 

I shall behold my Dead again ? 

1S55. 

THE LOST CROWN 

You ask me why I sometimes drop 
The threads of talk I weave with 
you, 

And midway in expression stop 
As if a sudden trumpet blew. 

It is because a trumpet blows 
From steeps your feet will never 
climb: 

It calls my soul from present woes 
To rule some buried realm of Time. 

Wide open swing the guarded gates, 
That shut from you the vales of 
dawn ; 

And there my car of triumph waits, 
By white, immortal horses drawn. 

A throne of gold the wheels uphold, 
Each spoke a ray of jewelled fire : 

The crimson banners float unrolled, 
Or falter when the winds expire. 

Lo ! where the valley's bed expands, 
Through cloudy censer-smoke, up- 
curled — 

The avenue to distant lands — 
The single landscape of a world ! 

I mount the throne ; I seize the rein ; 

Between the shouting throngs I go, 
The millions crowding hill and plain, 

And now a thousand trumpets blow! 

The armies of the world are there, 
The pomp, the beauty, and the 
power, 

Far-shining through the dazzled air, 
To crown the triumph of the hour. 

Enthroned aloft, I seem to float 
On wide, victorious wings upborne, 



Past the rich vale's expanding throat, 
To where the palace burns with 
morn. 

My limbs dilate, my breast expands, 
A starry fire is in my eye ; 

I ride above the subject lands, 
A god beneath the hollow sky. 

Peal out, ye clarions! shout, ye 
throngs, 

Beneath your banners' reeling folds ! 
This pageantry to me belongs, — 

My hand its proper sceptre holds. 

Surge on, in still augmenting lines, 
Till the great plain be overrun, 

And my procession far outshines 
The bended pathway of the sun ! 

But when my triumph overtops 
This language, which from vassals 
grew, 
The crown from off my forehead 
drops, 
And I again am serf with you. 

1855. 

STUDIES FOR PICTURES 



AT HOME 

The rain is sobbing on the wold ; 
The house is dark, the hearth is cold ; 
And, stretching drear and ashy gray 
Beyond the cedars, lies the bay. 

The winds are moaning, as they pass 
Through tangled knots of autumn 

grass, — 
A weary, dreary sound of woe, 
As if all joy were dead below. 

I sit alone, I wait in vain 
Some voice to lull this nameless pain ; 
But from my neighbor's cottage near 
Come sounds of happy household 
cheer. 

My neighbor at his window stands, 
His youngest baby in his hands ; 
The others seek his tender kiss, 
And one sweet woman crowns his 
bliss. 



94 LYRICS 



I look upon the rainy wild : 
I have no wife, I have no child : 
There is no fire upon my hearth, 
And none to love me on the earth. 



II 



THE NEIGHBOR 

How cool and wet the lowlands lie 
Beneath the cloaked and wooded sky ! 
How softly beats the welcome rain 
Against the plashy window-pane ! 

There is no sail upon the bay : 
We cannot go abroad to-day, 
But, darlings, come and take my hand, 
And hear a tale of Fairy-land. 

The baby's little head shall rest 
In quiet on his father's breast, 
And mother, if he chance to stir, 
Shall sing him songs once sung to her. 

Ah, little ones, ye do not fret 
Because the garden grass is wet ; 
Te love the rains, whene'er they come, 
That all day keep your father home. 

No fish to-day the net shall yield ; 
The happy oxen graze afield ; 
The thirsty corn will drink its fill, 
And louder sing the woodland rill. 

Then, darlings, nestle round the 

hearth ; 
Ye are the sunshine of the earth : 
Your tender eyes so fondly shine, 
They bring a welcome rain to mine. 



Ill 

UNDER THE STARS 

How the hot revel's fever dies, 
Beneath the stillness of the skies! 
How suddenly the whirl and glare 
Shoot far away, and this cold air 
Its icy beverage brings, to chase 
The burning wine-flush from my face ! 
The window's gleam still faintly falls, 
And music sounds at intervals, 
Jarring the pulses of the night 
With whispers of profane delight; 



But on the midnight's awful strand, 
Like some wrecked swimmer flung to 

land, 
I lie, and hear those breakers roar : 
And smile — they cannot harm me 

more ! 

Keep, keep your lamps ; they do not 

mar 
The silver of a single star. 
The painted roses you display 
Drop from your cheeks, and fade 

away ; 
The snowy warmth you bid me see 
Is hollowness and mockery ; 
The words that make your sin so 

fair 
Grow silent in this vestal air ; 
The loosened madness of your hair, 
That wrapped me in its snaky coils, 
No more shall mesh me in your 

toils ; 
Your very kisses on my brow 
Burn like the lips of devils now. 
O sacred night ! virgin calm ! 
Teach me the immemorial psalm 
Of your eternal watch sublime 
Above the grovelling lusts of Time ! 
Within, the orgie shouts and reels ; 
Without, the planets' golden wheels 
Spin, circling through the utmost 

space ; 
Within, each flushed and reckless face 
Is masked to cheat a haunting care ; 
Without, the silence and the prayer. 
Within, the beast of flesh controls; 
Without, the God that speaks in souls ! 



IV 

IN THE MORNING 

The lamps were thick ; the air was 
hot; 
The heavy curtains hushed the 
room; 
The sultry midnight seemed to blot 
All life but ours in vacant gloom. 

You spoke: my blood in every vein 
Throbbed, as by sudden fever 
stirred, 
And some strange whirling in my 
brain 
Subdued my judgment, as I heard. 



Ah, yes ! when men are dead asleep, 
When all the tongues of day are 
still, 
The heart must sometimes fail to 
keep 
Its natural poise 'twixt good and ill. 

You knew too well its blind desires, 
Its savage instincts, scarce con- 
fessed ; 
I could not see you touch the wires, 
But felt your lightning in my 
breast. 

For you, Life's web displayed its flaws, 
The wrong which Time transforms 
to right : 

The iron mesh of social laws 
Was but a cobweb in your sight. 

You showed that tempting freedom, 
where 
The passions bear their perfect 
fruit, 
The cheats of conscience cannot scare, 
And Self is monarch absolute. 

And something in me seemed to rise, 
And trample old obedience down : 

The serf sprang up, with furious eyes, 
And clutched at the imperial crown. 

That fierce rebellion overbore 
The arbiter that watched within, 

Till Sin so changed an aspect wore, 
It was no longer that of Sin. 

You gloried in the fevered flush 

That spread, defiant, o'er my face, 
Nor thought how soon this morning's 
blush 
Would chronicle the night's dis- 
grace. 

I wash my eyes ; I bathe my brow ; 

I see the sun on hill and plain ; 
The old allegiance claims me now, 

The old content returns again. 

Ah, seek to stop the sober glow 

And healthy airs that come with 
day, 

For when the cocks at dawning crow 
Your evil spirits flee away. 

1S55. 



SUNKEN TREASURES 

SUNKEN TREASURES 



95 



When the uneasy waves of life sub- 
side, 
And the soothed ocean sleeps in 
glassy rest, 
I see, submerged beyond or storm or 
tide, 
The treasures gathered in its greedy 
breast. 

There still they shine, through the 
translucent Past, 
Far down on that forever quiet 
floor ; 
No fierce upheaval of the deep shall 
cast 
Them back, — no wave shall wash 
them to the shore. 

I see them gleaming, beautiful as 
when 
Erewhile they floated, convoys of 
my fate ; 
The barks of lovely women, noble 
men, 
Full-sailed with hope, and stored 
with Love's own freight. 

The sunken ventures of my heart as 
well, 
Look up to me, as perfect as at 
dawn ; 
My golden palace heaves beneath the 
swell 
To meet my touch, and is again 
withdrawn. 

There sleep the early triumphs, 
cheaply won, 
That led Ambition to his utmost 
verge, 
And still his visions, like a drowning 
sun, 
Send up receding splendors through 
the surge. 

There wait the recognitions, the quick 
ties, 
Whence the heart knows its kin, 
wherever cast ; 
And there the partings, when the 
wistful eyes 
Caress each other as they look their 
last. 



9 6 



LYRICS 



Tliere lie the summer eves, delicious 
eves, 
The soft green valleys drenched 
with light divine, 
The lisping murmurs of the chestnut 
leaves, 
The hand that lay, the eyes that 
looked in mine. 

There lives the hour of fear and rapture 

yet, 

The perilled climax of the passion- 
ate years ; 
There still the rains of wan December 
wet 

A naked mound, — I cannot see for 
tears ! 

There are they all : they do not fade 
or waste, 
Lapped in the arms of the embalm- 
ing brine ; 
More fair than when their beings mine 
embraced, — 
Of nobler aspect, beauty more di- 
vine. 

I see them all, but stretch my hands 
in vain ; 
No deep-sea plummet reaches where 
they rest ; 
No cunning di^er shall descend the 
main, 
And bring a single jewel from its 
breast. 

1855. 



THE VOYAGERS 

No longer spread the sail. ! 

No longer strain the oar ! 
For never yet has blown the gale 

Will bring us nearer shore. 

The swaying keel slides on, 

The helm obeys the hand ; 
Fast we have sailed from dawn to 
dawn, 

Yet never reach the land. 

Each morn we see its peaks, 
Made beautiful with snow ; 

Each eve its vales and winding 
creeks, 
That sleep in mist below. 



At noon we mark the gleam 

Of temples tall and fair ; 
At midnight watch its bonfires stream 

In the auroral air. 

And still the keel is swift, 

And still the wind is free, 
And still as far its mountains lift 

Beyond the enchanted sea. 

Yet vain is all return, 

Though false the goal before ; 
The gale is ever dead astern, 

The current sets to shore. 

O shipmates, leave the ropes, — 
And what though no one steers, 

We sail no faster for our hopes, 
No slower for our fears. 

Howe'er the bark is blown, 
Lie down and sleep awhile : 

What profits toil, when chance alone 
Can bring us to the isle ? 

1855. 

SONG 

Now the days are brief and drear : 
Naked lies the new-born Year 
In his cradle of the snow, 
And the winds unbridled blow, 
And the skies hang dark and low, — 
For the Summers come and go. 

Leave the clashing cymbals mute ! 
Pipe no more the happy flute ! 
Sing no more that dancing rhyme 
Of the rose's harvest-time ; — 
Sing a requiem, sad and low : 
For the Summers come and go. 

Where is Youth ? He strayed away 
Through the meadow-flowers of May. 
Where is Love ? The leaves that fell 
From his trysting-bower, can tell. 
Wisdom stays, sedate and slow, 
And the Summers come and go. 

Yet a few more years to run, 
Wheeling round in gloom and sun : 
Other raptures, other woes, — 
Toil alternate with Repose : 
Then to sleep where daisies grow, 
While the Summers come and go. 

1858. 



A PICTURE 
THE MYSTERY 

thou art not gone 



97 



Thou art not dead 
to dust ; 

No line of all thy loveliness shall fall 
To formless ruin, smote by Time, and 
thrust 
Into the solemn gulf that covers all. 

Thou canst not wholly perish, though 
the sod 
Sink with its violets closer to thy 
breast ; 
Though by the feet of generations 
trod, 
The headstone crumbles from thy 
place of rest. 

The marvel of thy beauty cannot die ; 
The sweetness of thy presence shall 
not fade ; 
Earth gave not all the glory of thine 
eye, — 
Death may not keep what Death 
has never made. 

It was not thine, that forehead strange 
and cold, 
Nor those dumb lips, they hid be- 
neath the snow ; 
Thy heart would throb beneath that 
passive fold, 
Tliy hands for me that stony clasp 
forego. 

But thou hadst gone, — gone from the 
dreary land, 
Gone from the storms let loose on 
every hill, 
Lured by the sweet persuasion of a 
hand 
Which leads thee somewhere in the 
distance still. 

Where'er thou art, I know thou wear- 
est yet 
The same bewildering beauty, sanc- 
tified 
By calmer joy, and touched with soft 
regret 
For him who seeks, but cannot 
reach thy side. 

I keep for thee the living love of old, 
And seek thy place in Nature, as a 
child 



Whose hand is parted from his play- 
mate's hold, 
Wanders and cries along a lonesome 
wild. 



When, in the watches of my heart, I 
hear 
The messages of purer life, and 
know 
The footsteps of thy spirit lingering 
near, 
The darkness hides the way that I 
should go. 

Canst thou not bid the empty realms 
restore 
That form, the symbol of thy hea- 
venly part ? 
Or on the fields of barren silence 
pour 
That voice, the perfect music of thy 
heart ? 

Oh once, once" bending to these wid- 
owed lips, 
Take back the tender warmth of 
life from me, 
Or let thy kisses cloud with swift 
eclipse 
The light of mine, and give me 
death with thee ? 

1851. 



A PICTURE 

Sometimes, in sleeping dreams of 
night, 

Or waking dreams of day, 
The selfsame picture seeks my sight 

And will not fade away. 

I see a valley, cold and still, 

Beneath a leaden sky : 
The woods are leafless on the hill, 

The fields deserted lie. 

The gray November eve benumbs 
The damp and cheerless air ; 

A wailing from the forest comes, 
As of the world's despair. 

But on the verge of night and storm, 
Far down the valley's line, 

I see the lustre, red and warm, 
Of cottage windows shine. 



9 8 



LYRICS 



And men are housed, and in their 
place 

In snug and happy rest, 
Save one, who walks with weary pace 

The highway's frozen breast. 

His limbs, that tremble with the cold, 
Shrink from the coming storm ; 

But underneath his mantle's fold 
His heart beats quick and warm. 

He hears the laugh of those who sit 

In Home's contented air ; 
He sees the busy shadows flit 

Across the window's glare. 

His heart is full of love unspent, 
His eyes are wet and dim ; 

For in those circles of content 
There is no room for him. 

He clasps his hands and looks above, 

He makes the bitter cry : 
"All, all are happy in their love, — 

All are beloved but I! " 

Across no threshold streams the light, 

Expectant, o'er his track ; 
No door is opened on the night, 

To bid him welcome back. 

There is no other man abroad 

In all the wintry vale, 
And lower upon his lonely road 

The darkness and the gale. 

I see him through the doleful shades 
Press onward, sad and slow, 

Till from my dream the picture fades, 
And from my heart the woe. 

1854. 

IN THE MEADOWS 

I lie in the summer meadows, 

In the meadows all alone, 
With the infinite sky above me, 

And the sun on his midday throne. 

The smell of the flowering grasses 

Is sweeter than any rose, 
And a million happy insects 

Sing in the warm repose. 

The mother lark that is brooding 
Feels the sun on her wings, 



And the deeps of the noonday glitter 
With swarms of fairy things. 

From the billowy green beneath me 
To the fathomless blue above, 

The creatures of God are happy 
In the warmth of their summer love. 

The infinite bliss of Nature 

I feel in every vein ; 
The light and the life of Summer 

Blossom in heart and brain. 

But darker than any shadow 
By thunder-clouds unfurled, 

The awful truth arises, 
That Death is in the world ! 

And the sky may beam as ever, 
And never a cloud be curled ; 

And the airs be living odors, 
But Death is in the world ! 

Out of the deeps of sunshine 
The invisible bolt is hurled: 

There 's life in the summer meadows, 
But Death is in the world ! 

1854. 

"DOWN IN THE DELL I 
WANDERED " 

Down in the dell I wandered, 

The loneliest of our dells, 
Where grow the lowland lilies, 

Dropping their foam-white bells, 
And the brook among the grasses 

Toys with its sand and shells. 

Fair were the meads and thickets, 
And sumptuous grew the trees, 

And the folding hills of harvest 
Were thrilled with the rippling 
breeze, 

But I heard beyond the valley, 
The hum of the plunging seas. 

The birds and the vernal grasses, 
They wooed me sweetly and long, 

But the magic of ocean called me, 
Murmuring free and strong, 

And the voice of the peaceful valley 
Mixed with the billow's song ! 

" Stay in the wood's embraces! 
Stay in the dell's repose ! " 



THE PHANTOM 



99 



"Float on the limitless azure, 
Flecked with its foamy snows ! " 

These were the flattering voices, 
Mingled in musical close. 

Bliss in the soft, green shelter, 
Fame on the boundless blue; 

Free with the winds of the ages, 
Nestled in shade and dew : 

Which shall I yield forever ? 
Which shall I clasp and woo ? 

SONG 

They call thee false as thou art fair, 

They call thee fair and free, — 
A creature pliant as the air 

And changeful as the sea : 
But I, who gaze with other eyes, — 

Who stand and watch afar, — 
Behold thee pure as yonder skies 

And steadfast as a star ! 

Thine is a rarer nature, born 

To rule the common crowd, 
And thou dost lightly laugh to scorn 

The hearts before thee bowed. 
Thou dreamest of a different love 

Than comes to such as these ; 
That soars as high as heaven above 

Their shallow sympathies. 

A star that shines with flickering 
spark 

Thou dost not wane away, 
But shed'st adown the purple dark 

The fulness of thy ray : 
A rose, whose odors freely part 

At every zephyr's will, 
Thou keep'st within thy folded heart 

Its virgin sweetness still ! 

THE PHANTOM 

Again I sit within the mansion, 

In the old, familiar seat ; 
And shade and sunshine chase each 
other 

O'er the carpet at my feet. 



But 



have 



the sweet-brier's arms 

wrestled upwards 
In the summers that are past, 
And the willow trails its branches 

lower 
Than when I saw them last. 



They strive to shut the sunshine wholly 
From out the haunted room; 

To fill the house, that once was joyful, 
With silence and with gloom. 

And many kind, remembered faces 
Within the doorway come, — 

Voices, that wake the sweeter music 
Of one that now is dumb. 

They sing, in tones as glad as ever, 
The songs she loved to hear ; 

They braid the rose in summer gar- 
lands, 
Whose flowers to her were dear. 

And still, her footsteps in the passage, 

Her blushes at the door, 
Her timid words of maiden welcome, 

Come back to me once more. 

And, all forgetful of my sorrow, 

Unmindful of my pain, 
I think she has but newly left me, 

And soon will come again. 

She stays without, perchance, a 
moment 

To dress her dark-brown hair ; 
I hear the rustle of her garments — 

Her light step on the stair ! 

O fluttering heart ! control thy tumult, 
Lest eyes profane should see 

My cheeks betray the rush of rapture 
Her coming brings to me ! 

She tarries long : but lo ! a whisper 

Beyond the open door, 
And, gliding through the quiet sun- 
shine, 

A shadow on the floor! 

Ah! 'tis the whispering pine that 
calls me, 
The vine, whose shadow strays ; 
And my patient heart must still await 
her, 
Nor chide her long delays. 

But my heart grows sick with weary 
waiting, 

As many a time before : 
Her foot is ever at the threshold, 

Yet never passes o'er. 

1854. 



L.ofC. 



THE POET'S JOURNAL 



PREFACE 

THE RETURN OF THE GODDESS 

Not as in youth, with steps outspeeding morn, 

And cheeks all bright, from rapture of the way, 
But in strange mood, half cheerful, half forlorn, 
She comes to me to-day. 

Does she forget the trysts we used to keep, 

When dead leaves rustled on autumnal ground, 
Or the lone garret, whence she banished sleep 
With threats of silver sound ? 

Does she forget how shone the happy eyes 

When they beheld her, — how the eager tongue 
Plied its swift oar through wave-like harmonies, 
To reach her where she sung ? 

How at her sacred feet I cast me down ? 

How she upraised me to her bosom fair, 
And from her garland shred the first light crown 
That ever pressed my hair ? 

Though dust is on the leaves, her breath will bring 

Their freshness back : why lingers she so long ? 
The pulseless air is waiting for her wing, 
Dumb with unuttered song. 

If tender doubt delay her on the road, 

Oh let her haste to find the doubt belied ! 
If shame for love unworthily bestowed, 
That shame shall melt in pride. 

If she but smile, the crystal calm shall break 

In music, sweeter than it ever gave, 
As when a breeze breathes o'er some sleeping lake, 
And laughs in every wave. 

The ripples of awakened song shall die 

Kissing her feet, and woo her not in vain, 
Until, as once, upon her breast I lie — 
Pardoned, and loved again ! 



INSCRIPTION 

TO THE MISTRESS OF CEDARCROFT 



The evening shadows lengthen on the lawn : 
Westward, our immemorial chestnuts stand, 

A mount of shade ; but o'er the cedars drawn, 
Between the hedge-row trees, in many a band 

Of brightening gold, the sunshine lingers on, 
And soon will touch our oaks with parting hand : 

And down the distant valley all is still, 

And flushed with purple smiles the beckoning hill. 



Come, leave the flowery terrace, leave the beds 
Where Southern children wake to Northern air : 

Let yon mimosas droop their tufted heads, 
These myrtle-trees their nuptial beauty wear, 

And while the dying day reluctant treads 
From tree-top unto tree-top, with me share 

The scene's idyllic peace, the evening's close, 

The balm of twilight, and the land's repose. 

in 

Come, for my task is done : the task that drew 
My footsteps from the chambers of the Day, — 

That held me back. Beloved, even from you, 
That are my daylight: for the Poet's way 

Turns into many a lonely avenue 
Where none may follow. He must sing his lay 

First to himself, then to the One most dear ; 

Last, to the world. Come to my side, and hear ! 



The poems ripened in a heart at rest, 
A life that first through you is free and strong, 

Take them and warm them in your partial breast, 
Before they try the common air of song ! 

Fame won at home is of all fame the best : 
Crown me your poet, and the critic's wrong 

Shall harmless strike where you in love have smiled, 

Wife of my heart, and mother of my child ! 

I860. 



THE POET'S JOURNAL 

FIRST EVENING 

The day had come, the day of many years. 

My bud of hope, thorned round with guarding fears, 

And sealed with frosts of oft-renewed delay, 

Burst into sudden bloom — it was the day ! 
11 Ernest will come ! " the early sunbeams cried ; 
" Will come ! " was breathed through all the woodlands wide ; 
" Will come, will come! " said cloud, and brook, and bird; 

And when the hollow roll of wheels was heard 

Across the bridge, it thundered, " He is near!" 

And then my heart made answer, " He is here!" 

Ernest was here, and now the day had gone 

Like other days, yet wild and swift and sweet, — 

And yet prolonged, as if with whirling feet 

One troop of duplicated Hours sped on 

And one trod out the moments lingeringly : 

So distant seemed the lonely dawn from me. 

But all was well. He paced the new-mown lawn, 

With Edith at his side, and, while my firs 

Stood bronzed with sunset, happy glances cast 

On the familiar landmarks of the Past. 

I heard a gentle laugh : the laugh was hers. 
" Confess it," she exclaimed, " I recognize, 

No less than you, the features of the place, 

So often have I seen it with the eyes 

Your memory gave me : yea, your very face, 

"With every movement of the theme, betrayed 

That here the sunshine lay, and there the shade." 
" A proof ! " cried Ernest. "Let me be your guide," 

She said, "and speak not : Philip shall decide." 

To them I went, at beckon of her hand. 

A moment she the mellow landscape scanned 

In seeming doubt, but only to prolong 

A witching aspect of uncertainty, 

And the soft smile in Ernest's watching eye : 
" Yonder," she said, "(I see I am not wrong, 

By Philip's face,) you built your hermit seat 

Against the rock, among the scented fern, 

Where summer lizards played about your feet ; 

And here, beside us, is the tottering urn 

You cracked in fixing firmly on its base ; 

And here — yes, yes ! — this is the very place — 

I know the wild vine and the sassafras — 

Where you and Philip, lying in the grass, 



106 THE POET'S JOURNAL 

Disowned the world, renounced the race of men, 
And you all love, except your own for him, 
Until, through that, all love came back again." 
Here Edith paused ; but Ernest's eyes were dim. 
He kissed her, gave a loving hand to me, 
And spoke : ' ' Ah, Philip, Philip, those were days 
We dare remember now, when only blaze 
Far-off, the storm's black edges brokenly. 
Who thinks, at night, that morn will ever be ? 
Who knows, far out upon the central sea, 
That anywhere is land ? And yet, a shore 
Has set behind us, and will rise before : 
A past foretells a future." ''Blessed be 
That Past! " I answered, "on whose bosom lay 
Peace, like a new-born child : and now, I see, 
The child is man, begetting day by day 
Some fresher joy, some other bliss, to make 
Your life the fairer for his mother's sake." 

Deeper beneath the oaks the shadows grew : 

The twilight glimmer from their tops withdrew, 

And purple gloomed the distant hills, and sweet 

The sudden breath of evening rose, with balm 

Of grassy meadows : in the upper calm 

The pulses of the stars began to beat: 

The fire-flies twinkled : through the lindens went 

A rustle, as of happy leaves composed 

To airy sleep, of drowsy petals closed, 

And the dark land lay silent and content. 

We, too, were silent. Ernest walked, I knew, 

With me, beneath the stars of other eves : 

He heard, with me, the tongues of perished leaves : 

Departed suns their trails of splendor drew 

Across departed summers : whispers came 

From voices, long ago resolved again 

Into the primal Silence, and we twain, 

Ghosts of our present selves, yet still the same, 

As in a spectral mirror wandered there. 

Its pain outlived, the Past was only fair. 

Ten years had passed since I had touched his hand, 

And felt upon my lips the brother-kiss 

That shames not manhood, — years of quiet bliss 

To me, fast-rooted on paternal land, 

Mated, yet childless. He had journeyed far 

Beyond the borders of my life, and whirled 

Unresting round the vortex of the world, 

The reckless child of some eccentric star, 

Careless of fate, yet with a central strength 

I knew would hold his life in equipoise, 

And bent his wandering energies, at length, 

To the smooth orbit of serener joys. 

Few were the winds that wafted to my nest 

A leaf from him : I learned that he was blest, — 

The late fulfilment of my prophecy, — 

And then I felt that he must come to me, 

The old, unswerving sympathy to claim ; 



FIRST EVENING 107 

And set my house in order for a guest 
Long ere the message of his coming came. 

In gentle terraces my garden fell 
Down to the rolling lawn. On one side rose, 
Flanking the layers of bloom, a bolder swell 
"With laurels clad, and every shrub that grows 
Upon our native hills, a bosky mound, 
Whence the commingling valleys might be seen 
Bluer and lovelier through the gaps of green. 
The rustic arbor which the summit crowned 
Was woven of shining smilax, trumpet-vine, 
Clematis, and the wild white eglantine, 
"Whose tropical luxuriance overhung 
The interspaces of the posts, and made 
For each sweet picture frames of bloom and shade. 
It was my favorite haunt when I was young, 
To read my poets, watch ni}- sunset fade 
Behind my father's hills, and, when the moon 
Shed warmer silver through the nights of June, 
Dream, as 't were new, the universal dream. 
This arbor, too, was Ernest's hermitage : 
Here he had read to me his tear-stained page 
Of sorrow, here renewed the pang supreme 
Which burned his youth to ashes : here would try 
To lay his burden in the hands of Song, 
And make the Poet bear the Lover's wrong, 
But still his heart impatiently would cry : 
" In vain, in vain ! You cannot teach to flow 
In measured lines so measureless a woe. 
First learn to slay this wild beast of despair, 
Then from his harmless jaws your honey tear ! " 

Hither we came. Beloved hands had graced 
The table with a flask of mellow juice, 
Thereto the gentle herb that poets use 
When Fancy droops, and in the corner placed 
A lamp, that glimmered through its misty sphere 
Like moonlit marble, on a pedestal 
Of knotted roots, against the leafy wall. 
The air was dry, the night was calm and clear, 
And in the dying clover crickets chirped. 
The Past, I felt, the Past alone usurped 
Our thoughts, — the hour of confidence had come, 
Of sweet confession, tender interchange, 
Which drew our hearts together, yet with strange 
Half-dread repelled them. Seeing Ernest dumb 
With memories of the spot, as if to me 
Belonged the right his secrets to evoke, 
And Edith's eyes on mine, consentingly, 
Conscious of all I wished to know, I spoke : 
" Dear Friend, one volume of your life I read 
Beneath these vines : you placed it in my hand 
And made it mine, — but how the tale has sped 
Since then, I know not, or can understand 
From this fair ending only. Let me see 



io8 



THE POET'S JOURNAL 



The intervening chapters, dark and bright, 
In order, as you lived them. Give to-night 
Unto the Past, dear Ernest, and to me ! " 
Thus I, with doubt and loving hesitance, 
Lest I should touch a nerve he fain would hide ; 
But he, with calm and reassuring glance, 
In which no troubled shadow lay, replied : 
"That mingled light and darkness are no more 
In this new life, than are the sun and shade 
Of painted landscapes : distant lies the shore 
Where last we parted, Philip : howl made 
The journey, what adventures on the road, 
What haps I met, what struggles, what success 
Of fame, or gold, or place, concerns you less, 
Dear friend, than how I lost that sorest load 
I started with, and came to dwell at last 
In the House Beautiful. There but remains 
A fragment here and there, — wild, broken strains 
And scattered voices speaking from the Past. " 
" Let me those broken voices hear," I said, 
" And I shall know the rest." " Well — be it so. 
You, who would write ' Besurgam ' o'er my dead, 
The resurrection of my heart shall know." 

Then Edith rose, and up the terraces 
Went swiftly to the house ; but soon we spied 
Her white dress gleam, returning through the trees, 
And, softly flushed, she came to Ernest's side, 
A volume in her hand. But he delayed 
Awhile his task, revolving leaf by leaf 
With tender interest, now that ancient grief 
No more had power to make his heart afraid ; 
For pain, that only lives in memory, 
Like battle-scars, it is no pain to show. 
" Here, Philip, are the secrets you would know," 
He said : " Howe'er obscure the utterance be, 
The lamp you lighted in the olden time 
Will show my heart' s-blood beating through the rhyme: 
A poet's journal, writ in fire and tears 
At first, blind protestations, blinder rage, 
(For you and Edith only, many a page !) 
Then slow deliverance, with the gaps of years 
Between, and final struggles into life, 
Which the heart shrank from, as 't were death instead." 
Then, with a loving glance towards his wife, 
Which she as fondly answered, thus he read : — 



THE TORSO 



In clay the statue stood complete, 
As beautiful a form, and fair, 

As ever walked a Roman street 
Or breathed the blue Athenian air ; 
The perfect limbs, divinely bare, 



Their old, heroic freedom kept, 

And in the features, fine and rare, 
A calm, immortal sweetness slept. 

ii 

O'er common men it towered, a god, 
And smote their meaner life with 
shame, 



FIRST EVENING 



109 



For while its feet the highway trod, 
Its lifted brow was crowned with 

flame 
And purified from touch of blame : 

Yet wholly human was the face, 
And over them who saw it came 

The knowledge of their own disgrace. 



It stood, regardless of the crowd, 

And simply showed what men 
might be : 
Its solemn beauty disavowed 

The curse of lost humanity. 

Erect and proud, and pure and 
free, 
It overlooked each loathsome law 

Wkereunto others bend the knee, 
And only what was noble saw. 



The patience and the hope of years 
Their final hour of triumph caught ; 

The clay was tempered with my tears, 
The forces of my spirit wrought 
With hands of fire to shape my 
thought, 

That when, complete, the statue stood, 
To marble resurrection brought, 

The Master might pronounce it good. 



But in the night an enemy, 
Who could not bear the wreath 
should grace 
My ready forehead, stole the key 
And hurled my statue from its base ; 
And now its fragments strew the 
place 
Where I had dreamed its shrine might 
be: 
The stains of common earth deface 
Its beauty and its majesty. 



The torso prone before me lies ; 

The cloven brow is knit with pain : 
Mute lips, and blank, reproachful 
eyes 

Unto my hands appeal in vain. 

My hands shall never work again : 
My hope is dead, my strength is 
spent : 

This fatal wreck shall now remain 
The ruined sculptor's monument. 

I860. 



ON THE HEADLAND 

I sit on the lonely headland, 
Where the sea-gulls come and go : 

The sky is gray above me, 
And the sea is gray below. 

There is no fisherman's pinnace 
Homeward or outward bound ; 

I see no living creature 
In the world's deserted round. 

I pine for something human, 
Man, woman, young or old, — 

Something to meet and welcome, 
Something to clasp and hold. 

I have a mouth for kisses, 

But there 's no one to give and take ; 
I have a heart in my bosom 

Beating for nobody's sake. 

warmth of love that is wasted ! 
Is there none to stretch a hand? 

No other heart that hungers 
In all the living land ? 

1 could fondle the fisherman's baby, 
And rock it into rest ; 

I could take the sunburnt sailor, 
Like a brother, to my breast. 

I could clasp the hand of any 

Outcast of land or sea, 
If the guilty palm but answered 

The tenderness in me ! 

The sea might rise and drown me, — 
Cliffs fall and crush my head, — 

Were there one to love me, living, 
Or weep to see me dead ! 

1855. 

MARAH 

The waters of my life were sweet, 
Before that bolt of sorrow fell ; 

But now, though fainting with the 
heat, 
I dare not drink the bitter well. 

My God ! shall Sin across the heart 
Sweep like a wind that leaves no 
trace, 

But Grief inflict a rankling smart 
No after blessing can efface ? 



no 



THE POET'S JOURNAL 



I see the tired mechanic take 
His evening rest beside his door, 

And gentlier, for their father's sake, 
His children tread the happy floor : 

The kitchen teems with cheering 
smells, 
With clash of cups and clink of 
knives, 
And all the household picture tells 
Of humble yet contented lives. 

Then in my heart the serpents hiss : 
What right have these, who scarcely 
know 

The perfect sweetness of their bliss, 
To flaunt it thus before my woe? 

Like bread, Love's portion they divide, 
Like water drink his precious wine, 

When the least crumb they cast aside 
Were manna for these lips of mine. 

I see the friend of other days 

Lead home his flushed and silent 
bride ! 

His eyes are suns of tender praise, 
Her eyes are stars of tender pride. 

Go, hide your shameless happiness, 
The demon cries, within my breast ; 

Think not that I the bond can bless, 
Which seeing, 1 am twice unblest. 

The husband of a year proclaims 
His recent honor, shows the boy, 

And calls the babe a thousand names, 
And dandles it in awkward joy : 

And then — I see the wife's pale 
cheek, 

Her eyes of pure, celestial ray — 
The curse is choked : I cannot speak, 

But, weeping, turn my head away ! 

1860. 

THE VOICE OF THE TEMPTER 

Last night the Tempter came to me, 

and said : 
"Why sorrow any longer for the 

dead? 
The wrong is done : thy tears and 

groans are naught : 
Forget the Past, — thy pain but lives 

in thought. 



Night after night, I hear thy cries 

implore 
An answer: she will answer thee no 

more. 
Give up thine idle prayer that Death 

may come 
And thou mayest somewhere find her : 

Death is dumb 
To those that seek him. Live : for 

youth is thine. 
Let not thy rich blood, like neglected 

wine, 
Grow thin and stale, but rouse thyself, 

at last, 
And take a man's revenge upon the 

Past. 
What have thy virtues brought thee? 

Let them go, 
And With them lose the burden of thy 

woe, 
Their only payment for thy service 

hard : 
They but exact, thou see'st, and not 

reward. 
Thy life is cheated, thou art cast 

aside 
In dust, the worn-out vessel of their 

pride. 
Come, take thy pleasure : others do 

the same, 
And love is theirs, and fortune, name, 

and fame ! 
Let not the name of Vice thine ear 

affright : 
Vice is no darkness, but a different 

light, 
Which thou dost need, to see thy path 

aright : 
Or if some pang in this experience lie, 
Through counter-pain thy present 

pain will die. 
Bethink thee of the lost, the barren 

years, 
Of harsh privations, unavailing tears, 
The steady ache of strong desires re- 
strained, 
And what thou hast deserved, and 

what obtained : 
Then go, thou fool ! and, if thou canst, 

rejoice 
To make such base ingratitude thy 

choice, 
While each indulgence which thy 

brethren taste 
But mocks thy palate, as it runs to 

waste !" 



FIRST EVENING 



So spake the Tempter, as he held out- 
spread 

Alluring pictures round my prostrate 
head. 

Twixt sleep and waking, in my help- 
less ear 

His honeyed voice rang musical and 
clear ; 

And half persuaded, shaken half with 
fear, 

I heard him, till the Morn began to 
shine, 

And found her brow less dewy-wet 
than mine. 
i860. 

EXORCISM 

tongues of the Past, be still ! 
Are the days not over and gone ? 

The joys have perished that were so 
sweet, 
But the sorrow still lives on. 

1 have sealed the graves of my hopes ; 
I have carried the pall of love : 

Let the pains and pangs be buried as 
deep, 
And the grass be as green above ! 

But the ghosts of the dead arise : 
They come when the board is 
spread ; 
They poison the wine of the banquet 
cups 
With the mould their lips have 
shed. 

The pulse of the bacchant blood 
May throb in the ivy wreath, 

But the berries are plucked from the 
nightshade bough 
That grows in the gardens of Death. 

I sleep with joy at my heart, 

Warm as a new-made bride; 
But a vampire comes to suck her 
blood, 
And I wake with a corpse at my 
side. 

O ghosts, I have given to you 
The bliss of the faded years ; 

The sweat of my brow, the blood of 
my heart. 
And manhood's terrible tears! 



Take them, and be content : 
I have nothing more to give : 

My soul is chilled in the house of 
Death, 
And 't is time that I should live. 

Take them, and let me be: 

Lie still in the churchyard mould, 
Nor chase from my heart each new 
delight 

With the phantom of the old ! 

1855. 



SQUANDERED LIVES 

The fisherman wades in the surges ; 

The sailor sails over the sea ; 
The soldier steps bravely to battle ; 

The woodman lays axe to the tree. 

They are each of the breed of the 
heroes, 
The manhood attempered in strife : 
Strong hands, that go lightly to la- 
bor, 
True hearts, that take comfort in 
life. 

In each is the seed to replenish 
The world with the vigor it 
needs, — 

The centre of honest affections, 
The impulse to generous deeds. 

But the shark drinks the blood of the 
fisher ; 
The sailor is dropped in the sea ; 
The soldier lies cold by his cannon ; 
The woodman is crushed by his 
tree. 

Each prodigal life that is wasted 
In manly achievement unseen, 
But lengthens the days of the cow- 
ard, 
And strengthens the crafty and 
mean. 

The blood of the noblest is lavished 
That the selfish a profit may find ; 

But God sees the lives that are 
squandered, 
And we to His wisdom are blind. 

1855. 



112 



THE POET'S JOURNAL 



A SYMBOL 



Heavy, and hot, and gray, 
Day following unto day, 
A felon gang, their blind life drag 
away, — 

Blind, vacant, dumb, as Time, 
Lapsed from his wonted prime, 
Begot them basely in incestuous 
crime : 

So little life there seems 
About the woods and streams, — 
Only a sleep, perplexed with night- 
mare-dreams. 

The burden of a sigh 
Stifles the weary sky, 
Where smouldering clouds in ashen 
masses lie : 

The forests fain would groan, 
But, silenced into stone, 
Crouch, in the dull blue vapors round 
them thrown. 

O light, more drear than gloom ! 
Than death more dead such 

bloom : 
Yet life — yet life — shall burst this 

gathering doom! 



Behold ! a swift and silent fire 

Yon dull cloud pierces, in the west, 

And blackening, as with growing ire, 
He lifts his forehead from his breast. 

He mutters to the ashy host 

That all around him sleeping lie, — 
Sole chieftain on the airy coast, 

To fight the battles of the sky. 

He slowly lifts his weary strength, 
His shadow rises on the day, 



And distant forests feel at length 
A wind from landscapes far away. 

HI . 

How shall the cloud unload its thun- 
der ? 
How shall its flashes fire the air ? 
Hills and valleys are dumb with won- 
der : 
Lakes look up with a leaden stare. 

Hark! the lungs of the striding giant 

Bellow an angry answer back ! 
Hurling the hair from his brows de- 
fiant, 
Crushing the laggards along his 
track. 

Now his step, like a battling Titan's, 
Scales in flame the hills of the sky; 

Struck by his breath, the forest 
whitens ; 
Fluttering waters feel him nigh ! 

Stroke on stroke of his thunder-ham- 
mer — 
Sheets of flame from his anvil 
hurled — 
Heaven's doors are burst in the clamor : 
He alone possesses the world ! 

IV 

Drowned woods, shudder no more : 
Vexed lakes, smile as before : 
Hills that vanished, appear again : 
Rise for harvest, prostrate grain ! 

Shake thy jewels, twinkling grass : 
Blossoms, tint the winds that pass : 
Sun, behold a world restored ! 
World, again thy sun is lord ! 

Thunder-spasms the waking be 
Into Life from Apathy : 
Life, not Death, is in the gale, — 
Let the coming Doom prevail 1 

1859. 



Thus far he read : at first with even tone, 

Still chanting in the old, familiar key, — 

That golden note, whose grand monotony 

Is musical in poets' mouths alone, — 

But broken, as he read, became the chime. 

To speak, once more, in Grief's forgotten tongue, 

And feel the hot reflex of passion flung 

Back on the heart by every pulse of rhyme 



FIRST EVENING 113 

Wherein it lives and burns, a soul might shake 

More calm than his. With many a tender break 

Of voice, a dimness of the haughty eye, 

And pause of wandering memory, he read ; 

While I, with folded arms and downcast head, 

In silence heard each blind, bewildered cry. 

Thus far had Ernest read : but, closing now 

The book, and lifting up a calmer brow, 
" Forgive me, patient God, for this! " he said : 
" And you forgive, dear friend, and dearest wife, 

If I have marred an hour of this sweet life 

With noises from the valley of the Dead. 

Long, long ago, the Hand whereat I railed 

In blindness gave me courage to subdue 

This wild revolt: I see wherein I failed : 

My heart was false, when most I thought it true, 

My sorrow selfish, when I thought it pure. 

For those we lose, if still their love endure 

Translation to that other land, where Love 

Breathes the immortal wisdom, ask in heaven 

No greater sacrifice than we had given 

On earth, our love's integrity to prove. 

If we are blest to know the other blest, 

Then treason lies in sorrow. Vainly said ! 

Alone each heart must cover up its dead ; 

Alone, through bitter toil, achieve its rest : 

Which I have found — but still these records keep, 

Lest I, condemning others, should forget 

My own rebellion. From these tares I reap, 

In evil days, a fruitful harvest yet. 

"But 'tis enough, to-night. Nay, Philip, here 
A chapter closes. See ! the moon is near : 
Your laurels glitter : come, my darling, sing 
The hymn I wrote on such a night as this ! " 
Then Edith, stooping first to take his kiss, 
Drew from its niche of woodbine her guitar, 
With chords prelusive tuned a slackened string, 
And sang, clear-voiced, as some melodious star 
Were dropping silver sweetness from afar: 

God, to whom we look up blindly, 
Look Thou down upon us kindly : 
We have sinned, but not designedly. 

If our faith in Thee was shaken, 
Pardon Thou our hearts mistaken, 
Our obedience reawaken. 

We are sinful, Thou art holy : 
Thou art mighty, we are lowly : 
Let us reach Thee, climbing slowly. 

Our ingratitude confessing, 

On Thy mercy still transgressing, 

Thou dost punish us with blessing ! 



ii 4 THE POET'S JOURNAL 



SECOND EVENING 

It was the evening of the second day, 
Which swifter, sweeter than the first had fled : 
My heart's delicious tumult passed away 
And left a sober happiness instead. 
For Ernest's voice was ever in mine ear, 
His presence mingled as of old with mine, 
But stronger, manlier, brighter, more divine 
Its effluence now : within his starry sphere 
Of love new -risen my nature too was drawn, 
And warmed with rosy flushes of the dawn. 

All day we drove about the lovely vales, 

Under the hill-side farms, through summer woods, 

The land of mingled homes and solitudes 

That Ernest loved. We told the dear old tales 

Of childhood, music new to Edith's ear, 

Sang olden songs, lived old adventures o'er, 

And, when the hours brought need of other cheer, 

Spread on the ferny rocks a tempting store 

Of country dainties. 'T was our favorite dell, 

Cut by the trout-stream through a wooded ridge : 

Above, the highway on a mossy bridge 

Strode o'er it, and below, the water fell 

Through hornblende bowlders, where the dircus flung 

His pliant rods, the berried spice-wood grew, 

And tulip-trees and smooth magnolias hung 

A million leaves between us and the blue. 

The silver water-dust in puffs arose 

And turned to dust of jewels in the sun, 

And like a canon, in its close begun 

Afresh, the stream's perpetual lullaby 

Sang down the dell, and deepened its repose. 

Here, till the western hours had left the sky, 

We sat : then homeward loitered through the dusk 

Of chestnut woods, along the meadow-side, 

And lost in lanes that breathed ambrosial musk 

Of wild-grape blossoms : and the twilight died. 

Long after every star came out, we paced 
The terrace, still discoursing on the themes 
The day had started, intermixed with dreams 
Born of the summer night. Then, golden-faced, 
Behind her daybreak of auroral gleams, 
The moon arose : the bosom of the lawn 
Whitened beneath her silent snow of light, 
Save where the trees made isles of mystic night, 
Dark blots against the rising splendor drawn, 
And where the eastern wall of woodland towered, 
Blue darkness, filled with undistinguished shapes : 
But elsewhere, over all the landscape showered — 
A silver drizzle on the distant capes 
Of hills — the glory of the moon. We sought, 
Drawn thither by the same unspoken thought, 



SECOND EVENING 



ii5 



The mound, where now the leaves of laurel clashed 
Their dagger-points of light, around the bower, 
And through the nets of leaf and elfin flower. 
Cold fire, the sprinkled drops of moonshine flashed. 

Erelong in Ernest's hand the volume lay, 
(I did not need a second time to ask,) 
And he resumed the intermitted task. 
This night, dear Philip, is the Poet's day," 
He said : "the world is one confessional : 
Our sacred memories as freely fall 
As leaves from o'er-ripe blossoms: we betray 
Ourselves to Nature, who the tale can win 
We shrink from uttering in the daylight's din. 
So, Friend, come back with me a little way 
Along the years, and in these records find 
The sole inscriptions they have left behind." 



ATONEMENT 

If thou hadst died at midnight, 
With a lamp beside thy bed ; 

The beauty of sleep exchanging 
For the beauty of the dead : 

When the bird of heaven had called 
thee, 

And the time had come to go, 
And the northern lights were dancing 

On the dim December snow, — 

If thou hadst died at midnight, 
I had ceased to bid thee stay, 

Hearing the feet of the Father 
Leading His child away. 

I had knelt, in the awful Presence, 
And covered my guilty head, 

And received His absolution 
For my sins toward the dead. 

But the cruel sun was shining 
In the cold and windy sky, 

And Life, with his mocking voices, 
Looked in to see thee die. 

God came and went unheeded ; 

No tear repentant shone; 
And he took the heart from my bosom, 

And left in its place a stone. 

Each trivial promise broken, 

Each tender word unsaid, 
Must be evermore unspoken, — 

Unpardoned by the dead. 



Unpardoned? No: the struggle 
Of years was not in vain, — 

The patience that wearies passion, 
And the prayers that conquer pain. 

This tardy resignation 

May be the blessed sign 
Of pardon and atonement, 

Thy spirit sends to mine. 

Now first I dare remember 
That day of death and woe : 

Within, the dreadful silence, 
Without, the sun and snow ! 



I860. 



DECEMBER 



The beech is bare, and bare the ash, 
The thickets white below ; 

The fir-tree scowls with hoar mous- 
tache, 
He cannot sing for snow. 

The body-guard of veteran pines, 

A grim battalion, stands ; 
They ground their arms, in ordered 
lines, 

For Winter so commands. 

The waves are dumb along the shore, 

The river's pulse is still ; 
The north- wind's bugle blows no more 

Reveille from the hill. 

The rustling sift of falling snow, 
The muffled crush of leaves, 



n6 



THE POET'S JOURNAL 



These are the sounds suppressed, that 
show 
How much the forest grieves ; 

But, as the blind and vacant Day 

Crawls to his ashy bed, 
I hear dull echoes far away, 

Like drums above the dead. 

Sigh with me, Pine that never 
changed ! 

Thou wear'st the Summer's hue ; 
Her other loves are all estranged, 

But thou and I are true ! 

1856. 

SYLVAN SPIRITS 

The gray stems rise, the branches 

braid 
A covering of deepest shade. 
Beneath these old, inviolate trees 
There comes no stealthy, sliding 

breeze, 
To overhear their mysteries. 

Steeped in the fragrant breath of 

leaves, 
My heart a hermit peace receives : 
The sombre forest thrusts a screen 
My refuge and the world between, 
And beds me in its balmy green. 

No fret of life may here intrude, 
To vex the sylvan solitude. 
Pure spirits of the earth and air, 
From hollow trunk and bosky lair 
Come forth, and hear your lover's 
prayer ! 

Come, Druid soul of ancient oak, 
Thou, too, hast felt the thunder- 
stroke ; 
Come, Hamadryad of the beech, 
Nymph of the burning maple, teach 
My heart the solace of your speech ! 

Alas ! the sylvan ghosts preserve 
The natures of the race they serve. 
Not only Dryads, chaste and shy, 
But piping Fauns, come dancing nigh, 
And Satyrs of the shaggy thigh. 

Across the calm, the holy hush, 

And shadowed air, there darts a flush 

Of riot, from the lawless brood, 



And rebel voices in my blood 
Salute these orgies of the wood. 

Not sacred thoughts alone engage 

The saint in silent hermitage : 

The soul within him heavenward 

strives, 
Yet strong, as in profaner lives, 
The giant of the flesh survives. 

From Nature, as from human haunts, 
That giant draws his sustenance. 
By her own elves, in woodlands wild 
She sees her robes of prayer defiled : 
She is not purer than her child. 



THE LOST MAY 

When May, with cowslip-braided 
locks, 
Walks through the land in green 
attire, 
And burns in meadow-grass the phlox 
His torch of purple fire : 

When buds have burst the silver 
sheath, 
And shifting pink, and gray, and 
gold 
Steal o'er the woods, while fair be- 
neath 
The bloomy vales unfold : 

When, emerald-bright, the hemlock 
stands 
New-feathered, needled new the 
pine ; 
And, exiles from the orient lands, 
The turbaned tulips shine : 

When wild azaleas deck the knoll, 
And cinque-foil stars the fields of 
home, 
And winds, that take the white-weed, 
roll 
The meadows into foam : 

Then from the jubilee I turn 

To other Mays that I have seen, 
Where more resplendent blossoms 
burn, 
And statelier woods are green ; — 

Mays, when my heart expanded first, 
A honeyed blossom, fresh with dew ; 



SECOND EVENING 



117 



And one sweet wind of heaven dis- 
persed 
The only clouds I knew. 

For she, whose softly -murmured name 
The music of the month expressed, 
Walked by my side, in holy shame 
Of girlish love confessed. 

The budding chestnuts overhead, 
Their sprinkled shadows in the 

lane, — 
Blue flowers along the brooklet's 

bed,— 



The old, old tale of girl and boy, 

Repeated ever, never old : 
To each in turn the gates of joy, 
The gates of heaven unfold. 

And when the punctual May arrives, 
With cowslip-garland on her brow, 
We know what once she gave our lives 
And cannot give us now. 

I860. 



CHURCHYARD ROSES 

The woodlands wore a gloomy green, 
The tawny stubble clad the hill, 

And August hung her smoky screen 
Above the valleys, hot and still. 

No life was in the fields that day ; 

My steps were safe from curious 
eyes: 
I wandered where, in churchyard clay, 

The dust of love and beauty lies. 

Around me thrust the nameless graves 
Their fatal ridges, side by side, 

So green, they seemed but grassy 
waves, 
Yet quiet as the dead they hide. 

And o'er each pillow of repose 
Some innocent memento grew, 

Of pansy, pink, or lowly rose, 
Or hyssop, lavender, and rue. 

What flower is hers, the maiden bride ? 
What sacred plant protects her bed ? 
saw, the greenest mound beside, 
A rose of dark and lurid red. 



An eye of fierce demoniac stain, 
It mocked my calm and chastened 
grief ; 
I tore it, stung with sudden pain, 
And stamped in earth each bloody 
leaf. 

And down upon that trampled grave 
In recklessness my body cast : 

" Give back the life I could not save, 
Or give deliverance from the Past ! " 

But something gently touched my 
cheek, 

Caressing while its touch reproved : 
A rose, all white and snowy -meek, 

It grew upon the dust I loved ! 

A breeze the holy blossom pressed 
Upon my lips : Dear Saint, I cried, 

Still blooms the white rose, in my 
breast, 
Of Love, that Death has sanctified 1 

I860. 



AUTUMNAL DREAMS 



When the maple turns to crimson 
And the sassafras to gold ; 

When the gentian 's in the meadow, 
And the aster on the wold ; 

When the noon is lapped in vapor, 
And the night is frosty-cold : 



When the chestnut-burs are opened, 
And the acorns drop like hail, 

And the drowsy air is startled 

With the thumping of the flail, — 

With the drumming of the partridge 
And the whistle of the quail : 



Through the rustling woods I wander, 
Through the jewels of the year, 

From the yellow uplands calling, 
Seeking her that still is dear : 

She is near me in the autumn, 
She, the beautiful, is near. 



Through the smoke of burning sum- 
mer, 
When the weary winds are still, 






n8 



THE POET'S JOURNAL 



I can see her in the valley, 
I can hear her on the hill, — 

In the splendor of the woodlands, 
In the whisper of the rill. 



For the shores of Earth and Heaven 
Meet, and mingle in the blue : 

She can wander down the glory 
To the places that she knew, 

Where the happy lovers wandered 
In the days when life was true. 



So I think, when days are sweetest, 
And the world is wholly fair, 

She may sometime steal upon me 
Through the dimness of the air, 

With the cross upon her bosom 
And the amaranth in her hair. 

VII 

Once to meet her, ah ! to meet her, 
And to hold her gently fast 

Till I blessed her, till she blessed me, — 
That were happiness, at last : 

That were bliss beyond our meetings 
In the autumns of the Past ! 



IN WINTER 

The valley stream is frozen, 
The hills are cold and bare, 

And the wild white bees of winter 
Swarm in the darkened air. 

I look on the naked forest : 
Was it ever green in June ? 

Did it burn with gold and crimson 
In the dim autumnal noon ? 

I look on the barren meadow: 
Was it ever heaped with hay ? 

Did it hide the grassy cottage 
Where the skylark's children lay ? 

I look on the desolate garden : 
Is it true the rose was there ? 

And the woodbine's musky blossoms, 
And the hyacinth's purple hair ? 

I look on my heart, and marvel 
If Love were ever its own, — 

If the spring of promise brightened, 
And the summer of passion shone ? 



Is the stem of bliss but withered, 
And the root survives the blast ? 

Are the seeds of the Future sleeping 
Under the leaves of the Past ? 

Ah, yes ! for a thousand Aprils 
The frozen germs shall grow, 

And the dews of a thousand summers 
Wait in the womb of the snow ! 



YOUNG LOVE 

We are not old, we are not cold, 
Our hearts are warm and tender 
yet; 
Our arms are eager to enfold 
More bounteous love than we have 
met. 

Still many another heart lays bare 
Its secret chamber to our eyes, 

Though dim with passion's lurid air, 
Or pure as morns of Paradise. 

They give the love, whose glory lifts 
Desire beyond the realm of sense ; 

They make us rich with lavish gifts, 
The wealth of noble confidence. 

We must be happy, must be proud, 
So crowned with human trust and 
truth ; 

But ah ! the love that first we vowed, 
The dear religion of our youth ! 

Voluptuous bloom and fragrance rare 
The summer to its rose may bring ; 

Far sweeter to the wooing air 
The hidden violet of the spring. 

Still, still that lovely ghost appears, 
Too fair, too pure, to bid depart ; 

No riper love of later years 
Can steal its beauty from the heart. 

splendid sun that shone above ! 

O green magnificence of Earth 1 
Born once into that land of love, 

No life can know a second birth. 

Dear, boyish heart, that trembled so 

With bashful fear and fond unrests- 
More frightened than a dove, to know 
Another bird within its nest ! 



SECOND EVENING 



119 



Sharp thrills of doubt, wild hopes that 
came, 
Fond words addressed, — each word 
a pang : 
Then — hearts, baptized in heavenly 
flame, 
How like the morning stars ye sang ! 

Love bound ye with his holiest link, 
The faith in each that ask no more, 

And led ye from the sacred brink 
Of mysteries he held in store. 

Love led ye, children, from the bowers 
Where Strength and Beauty find his 
crown : 
Ye were not ripe for mortal flowers ; 
God's angel brought an amaranth 
down. 

Our eyes are dim with fruitless tears, 
Our eyes are dim, our hearts are sore: 

That lost religion of our years 
Comes never, never, nevermore ! 

1856. 

THE CHAPEL 

Like one who leaves the trampled 
street 
For some cathedral, cool and dim, 
Where he can hear in music beat 
The heart of prayer, that beats for 
him; 

And sees the common light of day, 
Through painted panes, transfig- 
ured, shine, 

And casts his human woes away, 
In presence of the Woe Divine : 

So I, from life's tormenting themes, 
Turn where the silent chapel lies, 

Whose windows burn with vanished 
dreams, 
Whose altar-lights are memories. 

There, watched by pitying cherubim, 
In sacred hush, I rest awhile, 

Till solemn sounds of harp and hymn 
Begin to sweep the haimted aisle : 

A hymn that once but breathed com- 
plaint, 

And breathes but resignation now, 
Since God has heard the pleading saint, 

And laid His hand upon my brow. 



Restored and comforted, I go 
To grapple with my tasks again ; 

Through silent worship taught to 
know 
The blessed peace that follows pain. 

I860. 



IF LOVE SHOULD COME AGAIN 

If Love should come again, I ask my 
heart 
In tender tremors, not unmixed with 
pain, 
Couldst thou be calm, nor feel thine 
ancient smart, 
If Love should come again ? 

Couldst thou unbar the chambers 
where his nest 
So long was made, and made, alas, 
in vain, 
Nor with embarrassed welcome chill 
thy guest, 
If Love should come again ? 

Would Love his ruined quarters recog- 
nize, 
Where shrouded pictures of the Past 
remain, 
And gently turn them with forgiving 
eyes, 
If Love should come again ? 

Would bliss, in milder type, spring up 
anew, 
As silent craters with the scarlet 
stain 
Of flowers repeat the lava's ancient 
hue, 
If Love should come again ? 

Would Fate, relenting, sheathe the 
cruel blade 
Whereby the angel of thy youth 
was slain 
That thou might' st all possesshim, un- 
afraid, 
If Love should come again ? 

In vain I ask : my heart makes no reply, 
But echoes evermore the sweet re- 
frain ; 
Till, trembling lest it seem a wish, I 
sigh: 
If Love should come again. 



i2o THE POET'S JOURNAL 

" The darkness and the twilight have an end," 
Said Ernest, as he laid the book aside, 
And, with a tenderness he could not hide, 
Smiled, seeing in the eyes of wife and friend 
The same soft dew that made his own so dim. 
My heart was strangely moved, but not for him. 
The holy night, the stars that twinkled faint, 
Serfs of the regnant moon, the slumbering trees 
And silvery hills, recalled fair memories 
Of her I knew, his life's translated saint, 
Who seemed too sacred now, too far removed, 
To be by him lamented or beloved. 
And yet she stood, I knew, by Ernest's side 
Invisible, a glory in the heart, 
A light of peace, the inner counterpart 
Of that which round us poured its radiant tide. 

We sat in silence, till a wind, astray 

From some uneasy planet, shook the vines 

And sprinkled us with snow of eglantines. 

The laurels rustled as it passed away, 

And, million-tongued, the woodland whisper crept 

Of leaves that turned in sleep, from tree to tree 

All down the lawn, and once again they slept. 

Then Edith from her tender fantasy 

Awoke, yet still her pensive posture kept, 

Her white hands motionless upon her knee, 

Her eyes upon a star that sparkled through 

The mesh of leaves, and hummed a wandering air, 

(As if the music of her thoughts it were,) 

Low, sweet, and sad, until to words it grew 

That made it sweeter, — words that Ernest knew : 

Love, I follow, follow thee, 

Wipe thine eyes and thou shalt see : 

Sorrow makes thee blind to me. 

I am with thee, Messing, blest ; 
Let thy doubts be laid to rest : 
Bise, and take me to thy breast ! 

In thy bliss my steps behold : 
Stretch thine arms and bliss enfold : 
'Tis thy sorrow makes me cold. 

Life is good, and life is fair, 
Love awaits thee everywhere : 
Love ! is Love's immortal prayer. 

Live for love, and thou shalt be. 
Loving others, true to me : 
Love, I follow, follow thee ! 

Thus Edith sang : the stars heard, and the night, 

The happy spirits, leaning from the wall 

Of Heaven, the saints, and God above them all, 

Heard what she sang. She ceased r her brow was bright 



THIRD EVENING 121 

With other splendor than the moon's : she rose, 
Gave each a hand, and silently we trod 
The dry, white gravel and the dewy sod, 
And silently we parted for repose. 



THIRD EVENING 

For days before, the wild-dove cooed for rain. 
The sky had been too bright, the world too fair. 
We knew such loveliness could not remain : 
We heard its ruin by the nattering air 
Foretold, that o'er the field so sweetly blew, 
Yet came, at night, a banshee, moaning through 
The chimney's throat, and at the window wailed : 
We heard the tree-toad trill his piercing note : 
The sound seemed near us, when, on farms remote, 
The supper-horn the scattered workmen hailed : 
Above the roof the eastward -pointing vane 
Stood fixed : and still the wild-dove cooed for rain. 

So, when the morning came, and found no fire 

Upon her hearth, and wrapped her shivering form 

In cloud, and rising winds in many a gyre 

Of dust foreran the footsteps of the storm, 

And woods grew dark, and flowery meadows chill, 

And gray annihilation smote the hill, 

I said to Ernest : "*T was my plan, you see : 

Two days to Nature, and the third to me. 

For you must stay, perforce : the day is doomed. 

No visitors shall yonder valley find, 

Except the spirits of the rain and wind : 

Here you must bide, my friends, with me entombed 

In this dim crypt, where shelved around us lie 

The mummied authors." " Place me, when I die," 

Laughed Ernest, "in as fair a catacomb, 

I shall not call posterity unjust, 

That leaves my bones in Shakespeare's, Goethe's home, 

Like king and beggar mixed in Memphian dust. 

But you are right : this day we well may give 

To you, dear Philip, and to those who stand 

Protecting Nature with a jealous hand, 

At once her subjects and her haughty lords ; 

Since, in the breath of their immortal words 

Alone, she first begins to speak and live." 

I know not, if that day of dreary rain 

Was not the happiest of the happy three. 

For Nature gives, but takes away again : 

Sound, odor, color — blossom, cloud, and tree 

Divide and scatter in a thousand rays 

Our individual being : but, in days 

Of gloom, the wandering senses crowding come 

To the close circle of the heart. So we, 

Cosily nestled in the library, 

Enjoyed each other and the warmth of home. 



122 THE POET'S JOURNAL 

Each window was a picture of the rain : 
Blown by the wind, tormented, wet, and gray, 
Losing itself in cloud, the landscape lay ; 
Or wavered, blurred, behind the streaming pane ; 
Or, with a sudden struggle, shook away 
Its load, and like a foundering ship arose 
Distinct and dark above the driving spray, 
Until a fiercer onset came, to close 
The hopeless day. The roses writhed about 
Their stakes, the tall laburnums to and fro 
Rocked in the gusts, the flowers were beaten low, 
And from his pygmy house the wren looked out 
With dripping bill : each living creature fled, 
To seek some sheltering cover for its head : 
Yet colder, drearier, wilder as it blew 
We drew the closer, and the happier grew. 

She with her needle, he with pipe and book, 
My guests contented sat : my cheerful dame, 
Intent on household duties, went and came, 
And I unto my childless bosom took 
The little two-year Arthur, Ernest's child, 
A darling boy, to both his parents true, — 
With father's brow, and mother's eyes of blue, 
And the same dimpled beauty when he smiled. 
Ah me ! the father's heart within me woke : 
The child that never was, I seemed to hold : 
The withered tenderness that bloomed of old 
In vain, revived when little Arthur spoke 
Of " Papa Philip ! " and his balmy kiss 
Renewed lost yearnings for a father's bliss. 
And something glittered in the boy's bright hair : 
I kissed him back, but turned away my head 
To hide the pang I would not have thee share, 
Dear wife ! from whom the dearest promise fled. 
God cannot chide so sacred a despair, 
But still I dream that somewhere there must be 
The spirit of a child that waits for me. 

And evening fell, and Arthur, rosy-limbed 

And snowy-gowned, in human beauty sweet, 

Came pattering up with little naked feet 

To kiss the good-night cup, that overbrimmed 

With love two fathers and two mothers gave. 

The steady rain against the windows drave, 

And round the house the noises of the night 

Mixed in a lulling music : dry old wood 

Burned on the hearth in leaps of ruddy light, 

And on the table purple beakers stood 

Of harmless wine, from grapes that ripened on 

The sunniest hillside of the smooth G-aronne. 

When Arthur slept, and doors were closed, and we 

Sat folded in a sweeter privacy 

Than even the secret-loving moon bestows, 

Spoke Ernest : " Edith, shall I read the rest ? " 

She, while the spirit of a happy rose 



THIRD EVENING 



123 



Visited her cheeks, consenting smiled, and pressed 

The hand he gave. " With what I now shall read," 

He added, ' ' Philip, you must he content. 

No further runs my journal, nor, indeed, 

Beyond this chapter is there further need ; 

Because the gift of Song was chiefly lent 

To give consoling music for the joys 

We lack, and not for those which we possess : 

I now no longer need that gift, to bless 

My heart, — your heart, my Edith, and your boy's ! 

Therewith he read : the fingers of the rain 
In light staccatos on the window played, 
Mixed with the flame's contented hum, and made 
Low harmonies to suit the varied strain. 



THE RETURN OF SPRING 

Have I passed through Death's uncon- 
scious birth, 

In a dream the midnight bare ? 
I look on another and fairer Earth : 

I breathe a wondrous air ! 

A spirit of beauty walks the hills, 

A spirit of love the plain ; 
The shadows are bright, and the sun- 
shine fills 

The air with a diamond rain ! 

Before my vision the glories swim, 
To the dance of a tune unheard : 

Is an angel singing where woods are 
dim, 
Or is it an amorous bird ? 

Is it a spike of azure flowers, 
Deep in the meadows seen, 

Or is it the peacock's neck, that tow- 
ers 
Out of the spangled green ? 

Is a white dove glancing across the 
blue, 
Or an opal taking wing ? 
For my soul is dazzled through and 
through, 
With the splendor of the Spring. 

Is it she that shines, as never before, 
The tremulous hills above, — 

Or the heart within me, awake once 
more 
To the dawning light of love ? 



MORNING 

Along the east, where late the dark 
impended, 

A dusky gleam is born : 
The watches of the night are ended, 

And heaven foretells the morn ! 

The hills of home, no longer hurled 
together, 
In one wide blotch of night, 
Lift up their heads through misty 
ether, 
Distinct in rising light. 

Then, after pangs of darkness slowly 
dying, 

O'er the delivered world 
Comes Morn, with every banner flying 

And every sail unfurled ! 

So long the night, so chill, so blank 
and dreary, 

I thought the sun was dead ; 
But yonder burn his beacons cheery 

On peaks of cloudy red : 

And yonder fly his scattered golden 
arrows, 
And smite the hills with day, 
While Night her vain dominion nar- 
rows 
And westward wheels away. 

A sweeter air revives the new crea- 
tion, 

The dews are tears of bliss, 
And Earth, in amorous palpitation, 

Receives her bridegroom's kiss. 



124 



THE POET'S JOURNAL 



Bathed in the morning, let my heart 
surrender 
The doubts that darkness gave, 
And rise to meet the advancing splen- 
dor — 
O Night ! no more thy slave. 

I breathe at last, thy gloomy reign 
forgetting, 
Thy weary watches done, 
Thy last pale star behind me set- 
ting, 
The freedom of the sun ! 

I860. 



THE VISION 



She came, long absent from my side, 
And absent from my dreams, she 
came, 

The earthly and the heavenly bride, 

In maiden beauty glorified : 

She looked upon me, angel-eyed : 
She called me by my name. 



But I, whose heart to meet her sprang 
And shook the fragile house of 
dreams, 
Stood, smitten with a guilty pang: 
In other groves and temples rang 
The songs that once for her I sang, 
By woods and faery streams. 

in 

Her eyes had power to lift my head, 
And, timorous as a truant child, 

I met the sacred light they shed, 

The light of heaven around her spread ; 

She read my face ; no word she said : 
I only saw she smiled. 



" Canst thou forgive me, Angel mine," 
I cried ; ' ' that Love at last beguiled 

My heart to build a second shrine ? 

See, still I kneel and weep at thine, 

But I am human, thou divine! " 
Still silently she smiled. 



" Dost undivided worship claim, 

To keep thine altar undefiled ? 

Or must I bear thy tender blame, 



And in thy pardon feel my shame, 

Whene'er I breathe another name 1 

She looked at me, and smiled. 



"Speak, speak!" and then my tears 
came fast, 
My troubled heart with doubt grew 
wild : 
"Will 't vex the love, which still thou 

hast, 
To know that I have peace at last ? " 
And from my dream the vision passed, 
And still, in passing, smiled. 

I860. 



LOVE RETURNED 



He was a boy when first we met ; 

His eyes were mixed of dew and fire, 
And on his candid brow was set 

The sweetness of a chaste desire. 
But in his veins the pulses beat 

Of passion, waiting for its wing, 
As ardent veins of summer heat 

Throb through the innocence of 
spring. 

ii 

As manhood came, his stature grew, 

And fiercer burned his restless eyes, 
Until I trembled, as he drew 

From wedded hearts their young 
disguise. 
Like wind -fed flame his ardor rose, 

And brought, like flame, a stormy 
rain: 
In tumult, sweeter than repose, 

He tossed the souls of joy and pain. 

in 

So many years of absence change ! 

I knew him not when he returned : 
His step was slow, his brow was 
strange, 

His quiet eye no longer burned. 
When at my heart I heard his knock, 

No voice within his right confessed : 
I could not venture to unlock 

Its chambers to an alien guest. 

IV 

Then, at the threshold, spent and worn 
With fruitless travel, down he lay : 



THIRD EVENING 



J 25 



And I beheld the gleams of morn 
On his reviving beauty play. 

I knelt, and kissed his holy lips, 
I washed his feet with pious care ; 

And from my life the long eclipse 
Drew off, and left his sunshine there. 



He burns no more with youthful 
fire ; 

He melts no more in foolish tears; 
Serene and sweet, his eyes inspire 

The steady faith of balanced years. 
His folded wings no longer thrill, 

But in some peaceful flight of 
prayer : 
He nestles in my heart so still, 

I scarcely feel his presence there. 



O Love, that stern probation o'er, 

Thy calmer blessing is secure ! 
Thy beauteous feet shall stray no 
more, 

Thy peace and patience shall en- 
dure ! 
The lightest wind deflowers the rose, 

The rainbow with the sun departs, 
But thou art centred in repose, 

And rooted in my heart of hearts ! 



A WOMAN 



She is a woman : therefore, I a 
man, 
In so much as I love her. Could I 
more, 

Then I were more a man. Our natures 
ran 
Together, brimming full, not flood- 
ing o'er 

The banks of life, and evermore will 
run 

In one full stream until our days are 
done. 

ii 
She is a woman, but of spirit brave 
To bear the loss of girlhood's giddy 
dreams ; 
The regal mistress, not the yielding 
slave 
Of her ideal, spurning that which 
seems 



For that which is, and, as her fancies 

fall, 
Smiling : the truth of love outweighs 

them all. 



She looks through life, and with a 

balance just 
Weighs men and things, beholding 

as they are 
The lives of others: in the common dust 
finds the 

ruined star 
Proud, with a pride all feminine and 

sweet, 
No path can soil the whiteness of her 

feet. 



The steady candor of her gentle eyes 
Strikes dead deceit, laughs vanity 
away ; 
She hath no room for petty jealousies, 
Where Faith and Love divide their 
tender sway. 
Of either sex she owns the nobler part : 
Man's honest brow and woman's faith- 
ful heart. 



She is a woman, who, if Love were 
guide, 
Would climb to power, or in obscure 
content 

Sit down : accepting fate with change- 
less pride — 
A reed in calm, in storm a staff un- 
bent : 

No pretty plaything, ignorant of life, 

But Man's true mother, and his equal 
wife. 

I860. 

THE COUNT OF GLEICHEN 

I read that story of the Saxon knight, 
Who, leaving spouse and feudal for- 
tress, made 
The Cross of Christ his guerdon in the 
fight, 
And joined the last Crusade. 

Whom, in the chase on Damietta's 
sands 
Estrayed, the Saracens in ambush 
caught, 



126 



THE POET'S JOURNAL 



And unto Cairo, to the Soldan's hands, 
A wretched captive brought : 

Whom then the Soldan's child, a dam- 
sel brave, 
Saw, pitied, comforted, and made 
him free, 
And with him flew, herself a willing 
slave 
In Love's captivity. 

I read how he to bless her love was 
fain, 
To whom his renovated life he owed, 
Yet with a pang the towers beheld 
again 
Where still his wife abode : 

The wife whom first he loved : would 
she not scorn 
The second bride he could not choose 
but wed, 
The second mother to his children, 
born 
In her divided bed ? 

Lo ! at his castle's foot the noble dame 
With tears of blessing, holy, unde- 
nted 
By human pain, received him when 
he came, 
And kissed the Soldan's child ! 

My tears were on the pages as I read 
The touching close: I made the 
story mine, 
Within whose heart, long plighted to 
the dead, 
Love built his living shrine. 

I too had dared, a captive in the land, 
To pay with love the love that broke 
my chain : 
Would she, who waited, stretch the 
pardoning hand, 
When I returned again ? 

Would she, my freedom and my bliss 
to know, 
With my disloyalty be reconciled, 
And from her bower in Eden look be- 
low, 
And bless the Soldan's child ? 

For she is lost: but she, the later 
bride, 



Who came my ruined fortune to 

restore, 
Back from the desert wanders at my 

side, 
And leads me home once more. 

If human love, she sighs, could move 
a wife 
The holiest sacrifice of love to make, 
Then the transfigured angel 'of thy 
life 
Is happier for thy sake ! 

I860. 

BEFORE THE BRIDAL 

Now the night is overpast, 
And the mist is cleared away : 

On my barren life at last 
Breaks the bright, reluctant day. 

Day of payment for the wrong 
I was doomed so long to bear ; 

Day of promise, day of song, 
Day that makes the future fair ! 

Let me wake to bliss alone : 

Let me bury every fear : 
What I prayed for, is my own ; 

What was distant, now is near. 

For the happy hour that waits 
No reproachful shade shall bring, 

And I hear forgiving Fates 
In the happy bells that ring. 

Leave the song that now is mute, 
For the sweeter song begun : 

Leave the blossom for the fruit, 
And the rainbow for the sun ! 



I860. 



POSSESSION 



7 It was our wedding-day 

A month ago," dear heart, I hear you 

say. 
If months, or years, or ages since have 

passed, 
I know not : I have ceased to question 

Time. 
I only know that once there pealed a 

chime 
Of joyous bells, and then I held you 

fast, 



THIRD EVENING 



127 



And all stood back, and none my 

right denied, 
And forth we walked : the world was 

free and wide 
Before us. Since that day 
I count my life : the Past is washed 

away. 



It was no dream, that vow : 

It was the voice that woke me from a 

dream, — 
A happy dream, I think; but I am 

waking now, 
And drink the splendor of a sun su- 
preme 
That turns the mist of former tears to 

gold. 
Within these arms I hold 
The fleeting promise, chased so long 

in vain : 
Ah, weary bird! thou wilt not fly 

again : 
Thy wings are clipped, thou canst no 

more depart, — 
Thy nest is builded in my heart ! 



I was the crescent ; thou 

The silver phantom of the perfect 

sphere, 
Held in its bosom : in one glory 

now 
Our lives united shine, and many a 

year — 
Not the sweet moon of bridal only — 

we 
One lustre, ever at the full, shall be : 
One pure and rounded light, one planet 

whole, 
One life developed, one completed 

soul ! 
For I in thee, and thou in me, 
L nite our cloven halves of destiny. 

IV 

God knew His chosen time : 

He bade me slowly ripen to my 

prime, 
And from my boughs withheld the 

promised fruit, 
Till storm and sun gave vigor to the 

root. 
Secure, O Love ! secure 
Thy blessiDg is : I have thee day and 

night : 



Thou art become my blood, my life, 

my light : 
God's mercy thou, and therefore shalt 

endure ! 
1S60. 

UNDER THE MOON 



From you and home I sleep afar, 
Under the light of a lonely star, 
Under the moon that marvels why 
Away from you and home I lie. 
Ah ! love no language can declare, 
The hovering warmth, the tender care, 
The yielding, sweet, invisible air 
That clasps your bosom, and fans your 

cheek 
With the breath of words I cannot 

speak, — 
Such love I give, such warmth im- 
part : 
The fragrance of a blossomed heart. 



The moon looks in upon my bed, 
Her yearning glory rays my head, 
And round me clings, a lonely light, 
The aureole of the winter night ; 
But in my heart a gentle pain, 
A balmier splendor in my brain, 
Lead me beyond the frosty plane, — 
Lead me afar, to mellower skies, 
Where under the moon a palace lies ; 
Where under the moon our bed is 

made, 
Half in splendor and half in shade. 

in 
The marble flags of the corridor 
Through open windows meet the floor, 
And Moorish arches in darkness rise 
Against the gleam of the silver skies : 
Beyond, in flakes of starry light, 
A fountain prattles to the night, 
And dusky cypresses, withdrawn 
In silent conclave, stud the lawn ; 
While mystic woodlands, more remote, 
In seas of airy silver float, 
So hung in heaven, the stars that set 
Seem glossy leaves the dew has wet 
On topmost boughs, and sparkling yet. 

IV 

In from the terraced garden blows 
The spicy soul of the tuberose, 



128 



THE POET'S JOURNAL 



As if t were the odor of strains that 

pour 
From the nightingale's throat as never 

before ; 
For he sings not now of wounding 

thorn, 
He sings as the lark in the golden 

morn, — 
A song of joy, a song of bliss, 
Passionate notes that clasp and kiss, 
Perfect peace and perfect pride, 
Love rewarded and satisfied, 
For I see you, darling, at my side. 



I see you, darling, at my side : 
I clasp you closer, in sacred pride. 
I shut my eyes, my senses fail, 
Becalmed by Night's ambrosial gale. 
Softer than dews the planets weep, 
Descends a sweeter peace than sleep ; 
All wandering sounds and motions die 
In the silent glory of the sky ; 
But, as the moon goes down the West, 
Your heart, against my happy breast, 
Says in its beating : Love is Rest. 



THE MYSTIC SUMMER 

'T is not the dropping of the flower, 
The blush of fruit upon the tree, 

Though summer ripens, hour by hour, 
The garden's sweet maternity : 

'Tis not that birds have ceased to build, 
And wait their brood with tender 
care; 

That corn is golden in the field, 
And clover balm is in the air ; — 

Not these the season's splendor bring, 
And crowd with life the happy year, 

Nor yet, where yonder fountains sing, 
The blaze of sunshine, hot and clear. 

In thy full womb, O Summer ! lies 
A secret hope, a joy unsung, 

Held in the hush of these calm skies, 
And trembling on the forest's 
tongue. 

The lands of harvest throb anew 
In shining pulses, far away ; 

The Night distils a dearer dew, 
And sweeter eyelids has the Day. 



And not in vain the peony burns, 
In bursting globes, her crimson fire, 

Her incense-dropping ivory urns 
The lily lifts in many a spire : 

And not in vain the tulips clash 
In revelry the cups they hold 

Of fiery wine, until they dash 
With ruby streaks the splendid 
gold! 

Send down your roots the mystic 
charm 
That warms and flushes all your 
flowers, 
And with the summer's touch disarm 
The thraldom of the under powers, 

Until, in caverns, buried deep, 

Strange fragrance reach the dia- 
mond's home, 

And murmurs of the garden sweep 
The houses of the frighted gnome ! 

For, piercing through their black re- 
pose, 

And shooting up beyond the sun, 
I see that Tree of Life, which rose 

Before the eyes of Solomon : 

Its boughs, that, in the light of God, 
Their bright, innumerous leaves 
display, — 

Whose hum of life is borne abroad 
By winds that shake the dead away. 

And, trembling on a branch afar, 
The topmost nursling of the skies, 

I see my bud, the fairest star 
That ever dawned for watching eyes. 

Unnoticed on the boundless tree, 
Its fragrant promise fills the air ; 

Its little bell expands, for me, 
A tent of silver, lily-fair. 

All life to that one centre tends ; 

All joy and beauty thence outflow ; 
Her sweetest gifts the summer spends, 

To teach that sweeter bud to blow. 

So, compassed by the vision's gleam, 
In trembling hope, from day to day, 

As in some bright, bewildering dream, 
The mystic summer wanes away. 

1859. 



THIRD EVENING 129 

THE FATHER THE MOTHER 



The fateful hour, when Death stood 

by 

And stretched his threatening hand 

in vain, 
Is over now, and Life's first cry 

Speaks feeble triumph through its 

pain. 

But yesterday, and thee the Earth 
Inscribed not on her mighty scroll : 

To-day she opes the gate of birth, 
And gives the spheres another soul. 

But yesterday, no fruit from me 
The rising windsof Time had hurled : 

To-day, a father, — can it be 
A child of mine is in the world ? 

I look upon the little frame, 
As helpless on my arm it lies : 

Thou giv'st me, child, a father's name, 
God's earliest name in Paradise. 

Like Him, creator too I stand : 
His Power and Mystery seem more 
near; 

Thou giv'st me honor in the land, 
And giv'st my life duration here. 

But love, to-day, is more than pride ; 

Love sees his star of triumph shine, 
For Life nor Death can now divide 

The souls that wedded breathe in 
thine : 

Mine and thy mother's, whence arose 
The copy of my face in thee ; 

And as thine eyelids first unclose, 
My own young eyes look up to me. 

Look on me, child, once more, once 
more, 
Even with those weak, unconscious 
eyes ; 
Stretch the small hands that help im- 
plore ; 
Salute me with thy wailing cries ! 

This is the blessing and the prayer 
A father's sacred place demands : 

Ordain me, darling, for thy care, 
And lead me with thy helpless 
hands ! 

1858. 



Paler, and yet a thousand times more 
fair 
Thau in thy girlhood's freshest 
bloom, art thou : 
A softer sun-flush tints thy golden 
hair, 
A sweeter grace adorns thy gentle 
brow. 

Lips that shall call thee "mother!" 
at thy breast 
Feed the young life, wherein thy 
nature feels 
Its dear fulfilment: little hands are 
pressed 
On the white fountain Love alone 
unseals. 

Look down, and let Life's tender day- 
break throw 
A second radiance on thy ripened 
hour: 
Retrace thine own forgotten advent 
so, 
And in the bud behold thy perfect 
flower. 

Nay, question not : whatever lies be- 
yond 
God will dispose. Sit thus, Madonna 
mine, 
For thou art haloed with a love as 
fond 
As Jewish Mary gave the Child Di- 
vine. 

I lay my own proud title at thy 
feet ; 
Thine the first, holiest right to love 
shalt be : 
Though in his heart our wedded pulses 
beat, 
His sweetest life our darling draws 
from thee. 

The father in his child beholds this 
truth, 
His perfect manhood has assumed 
its reign : 
Thou wear'st anew the roses of thy 
youth, — 
The mother in her child is born 
again. 

1858. 



i 3 o THE POET'S JOURNAL 

Thus came the Poet's Journal to an end. 
His heart's completed music ceased to flow 
From Ernest's lips : the tale I wished to know 
Was wholly mine. "lam content, dear friend," 
I said : "to me no voice can be obscure 
Wherein your nature speaks : the chords I hear, 
Too far and frail to strike a stranger's ear." 
With that, I bowed to Edith's forehead pure, 
And kissed her with a brother's blameless kiss : 

" To you the fortune of these days I owe, 
My other Ernest, like him most in this, 
That you can hear the cries of ancient woe 
With holy pity free from any blame 
Of jealous love, and find your highest bliss 
To know, through you his life's fulfilment came." 

" And through him, mine," the woman's heart replied : 
For Love's humility is Love's true pride. 

" These are your sweetest poems, and your best," 
To him I said. " I know not," answered he, 

" They are my truest. I have ceased to be 
The ambitious knight of Song, that shook his crest 
In public tilts : the sober hermit I, 
Whose evening songs but few approach to hear, — 
Who, if those few should cease to lend an ear, 
Would sing them to the forest and the sky 
Contented : singing for myself alone. 
No fear that any poet dies unknown, 
Whose songs are written in the h'earts that know 
And love him, though their partial verdict show 
The tenderness that moves the critic's blame. 
Those few have power to lift his name above 
Forgetfulness, to grant that noblest fame 
Which sets its trumpet to the lips of Love ! " 

" Nay, then," said I, "you are already crowned. 
If your ambition in the loving pride 
Of us, your friends, is cheaply satisfied, 
We are those trumpets : do you hear them sound ? " 
And Edith smilingly together wound 
Light stems of ivy to a garland fair, 
And pressed it archly on her husband's hair ; 
But he, with earnest voice, though in his eyes 
A happy laughter shone, protesting, said : 

" Respect, dear friends, the Muse's sanctities, 
Nor mock, with wreaths upon a living head, 
The holy laurels of the deathless Dead. 
Crown Love, crown Truth when first her brow appears, 
And crown the Hero when his deeds are done : 
The Poet's leaves are gathered one by one, 
In the slow process of the doubtful years. 
Who seeks too eagerly, he shall not find : 
Who, seeking not, pursues with single mind 
Art's lofty aim, to him will she accord, 
At her appointed time, the sure reward." 



THIRD EVENING 131 

The tall clock, standing sentry in the hall, 

Struck midnight : on the panes no longer heat 

The weary storm : the wind began to fall, 

And through the breaking darkness glimmered, sweet 

With tender stars, the flying gleams of sky. 

Come, Edith, lend your voice to crown the night, 

And give the new day sunny break," said I : 

She listening first in self -deceiving plight 

Of young maternal trouble, for a cry 

From Arthur's crib, sat down in happy calm, 

And sang to Ernest's heart his own thanksgiving psalm. 

Tliou who sendest sun and rain, 
Thou icho spendest bliss and pain, 
Good with bounteous hand bestowing, 
Evil for Thy icill allowing, — 
Though Thy ways we cannot see, 
All is just that comes from Thee. 

In the peace of hearts at rest, 
In the child at mother's breast, 
In the lives that now surround us, 
In the deaths that sorely wound us, 
Though we may not understand, 
Father, we behold Thy hand ! 

Hear the happy hymn we raise ; 
Take the love which is Thy praise ; 
Give content in each condition ; 
Bend our hearts in sweet submission, 
And Thy trusting children prove 
Worthy of the Father's love ! 



OCCASIONAL POEMS 



OCCASIONAL POEMS 
1861-1865 



THROUGH BALTIMORE 



'T was Friday morn : the train drew 
near 
The city and the shore. 
Far through the sunshine, soft and 

clear, 
"We saw the dear old flag appear, 
And in our hearts arose a cheer 
For Baltimore. 



Across the broad Patapsco's wave, 

Old Fort McHenry bore 
The starry banner of the brave, 
As when our fathers went to save, 
Or in the trenches find a grave 
At Baltimore. 



Before us, pillared in the sky, 

We saw the statue soar 
Of "Washington, serene and high : — 
Could traitors view that form, nor fly ? 
Could patriots see, nor gladly die 

For Baltimore ? 

IV 

" O city of our country's song ! 
By that swift aid we bore 
"When sorely pressed, receive the 

throng 
"Who go to shield our flag from wrong, 
And give us welcome, warm and 
strong, 
In Baltimore!" 



"We had no arms ; as friends we came, 

As brothers evermore, 
To rally round one sacred name, — 
The charter of our power and fame : 
"We never dreamed of guilt and shame 

In Baltimore. 



VI 

The coward mob upon us fell : 
McHenry's flag they tore : 

Surprised, borne backward by the 
swell, 

Beat down with mad, inhuman yell, 

Before us yawned a traitorous hell 
In Baltimore ! 



The streets our soldier-fathers trod 

Blushed with their children's gore ; 
We saw the craven rulers nod, 
And dip in blood the civic rod — 
Shall such things be, O righteous 
God, 
In Baltimore ? 

VIII 

No, never ! By that outrage black, 
A solemn oath we swore, 

To bring the Keystone's thousands 
back, 

Strike down the dastards who attack, 

And leave a red and fiery track 
Through Baltimore ! 

IX 

Bow down, in haste, thy guilty head ! 

God's wrath is swift and sore : 
The sky with gathering bolts is red, — 
Cleanse from thy skirts the slaughter 

shed, 
Or make thyself an ashen bed, 

O Baltimore ! 

April, 1861. 

TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE 

That late, in half-despair, I said : 
" The Nation's ancient life is dead ; 
Her arm is weak, her blood is cold ; 
She hugs the peace that gives her 
gold, — 



i36 



OCCASIONAL POEMS 



The shameful peace, that sees expire 
Each beacon-light of patriot fire, 
And makes her court a traitors' 

den," — 
Forgive me this, my countrymen ! 

O, in your long forbearance grand, 
Slow to suspect the treason planned, 
Enduring wrong, yet hoping good 
For sake of olden brotherhood, 
How grander, how sublimer far 
At the roused Eagle's call ye are, 
Leaping from slumber to the fight, 
For Freedom and for Chartered Right ! 

Throughout the land there goes a cry ; 
A sudden splendor fills the sky : 
From every hill the banners burst, 
Like buds by April breezes nurst ; 
In every hamlet, home, and mart, 
The fire-beat of a single heart 
Keeps time to strains whose pulses mix 
Our blood with that of Seventy-Six ! 

The shot whereby the old flag fell 
From Sumter's battered citadel 
Struck down the lines of party creed 
And made ye One in soul and deed, — 
One mighty People, stern and strong 
To crush the consummated wrong ; 
Indignant with the wrath whose rod 
Smites as the awful sword of God ! 

The cup is full ! They thought ye 

blind : 
The props of state they undermined ; 
Abused your trust, your strength de- 
fied, 
And stained the Nation's name of 

pride. 
Now lift to Heaven your loyal brows, 
Swear once again your fathers' vows, 
And cut through traitor hearts a track 
To nobler fame and freedom back ! 

Draw forth your million blades as one ; 
Complete the battle then begun ! 
God fights with ye, and overhead 
Floats the dear banner of your dead. 
They, and the glories of the Past, 
The Future, dawning dim and vast, 
And all the holiest hopes of Man, 
Are beaming triumph in your van ! 

Slow to resolve, be swift to do! 
Teach ye the False how fight the True ! 



How bucklered Perfidy shall feel 

In her black heart the Patriot's 

steel ; 
How sure the bolt that Justice wings ; 
How weak the arm a traitor brings ; 
How mighty they, who steadfast stand 
For Freedom's Flag and Freedom's 

Land! 
April 30, 1861. 



SCOTT AND THE VETERAN 



An old and crippled veteran to the 

War Department came ; 
He sought the Chief who led him on 

many a field of fame, — 
The Chief who shouted " Forward ! " 

where'er his banner rose, 
And bore its stars in triumph behind 

the flying foes. 



"Have you forgotten, General," the 

battered soldier cried, 
"The days of Eighteen Hundred 

Twelve, when I was at your 

side ? 
Have you forgotten Johnson, that 

fought at Lundy's Lane ? 
'Tis true, I'm old and pensioned, 

but I want to fight again." 

in 
" Have I forgotten ? " said the Chief ; 

' ' my brave old soldier, No ! 
And here 's the hand I gave you then, 

and let it tell you so : 
But you have done your share, my 

friend ; you 're crippled, old, 

and gray, 
And we have need of younger arms 

and fresher blood to-day." 



* ' But, General, " cried the veteran, a 

flush upon his brow, 
' ' The very men who fought with us, 

they say, are traitors now ; 
They 've torn the flag of Lundy's 

Lane, — our old red, white, and 

blue ; 
And while a drop of blood is left, I '11 

show that drop is true. 



MARCH 



137 



" I 'm not so weak but I can strike, 

and I'vea good old gun 
To get the range of traitors' hearts, 

and pick them, one by one. 
Your Minie rifles, and such arms, it 

a'n't worth while to try : 
I could n't get the hang o' them, but 

I '11 keep my powder dry 1 " 



' ' God bless you, comrade ! " said the 

Chief; "God bless your loyal 

heart ! 
But younger men are in the field, and 

claim to have their part : 
They'll plant our sacred banner in 

each rebellious town, 
And woe, henceforth, to any hand 

that dares to pull it down ! " 

VTI 

" But, General," — still persisting, the 

weeping veteran cried, — 
" I 'm young enough to follow, so long 

as you 're my guide ; 
And some, you know, must bite the 

dust, and that, at least, can I, — 
So, give the young ones place to fight, 

but me a place to die ! 

VIII 

"If they should fire on Pickens, let 

the Colonel in command 
Put me upon the rampart, with the 

flagstaff in my hand : 
No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or 

how the shells may fly ; 
I '11 hold the Stars and Stripes aloft, 

and hold them till I die ! 



"I'm ready, General, so you let a 

post to me be given, 
Where Washington can see me, as he 

looks from highest heaven, 
And say to Putnam at his side, or, 

may be, General Wayne ; 
' There stands old Billy Johnson, that 

fought at Lundy's Lane ! ' 



" And when the fight is hottest, before 

the traitors fly, 
When shell and ball are screeching and 

bursting in the sky, 



If any shot should hit me, and lay me 

on my face, 
My soul would go to Washington's, 

and not to Arnold's place 1 " 

May, 1861. 



MARCH 

With rushing winds and gloomy skies 
The dark and stubborn Winter dies : 
Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries, 
Bidding her earliest child arise : 

March! 

By streams still held in icy snare, 
On southern hillsides, melting bare, 
O'er fields that motley colors wear, 
That summons fills the changeful air : 

March ! 

What though conflicting seasons make 
Thy days their field, they woo or shake 
The sleeping lids of Life awake, 
And hope is stronger for thy sake, 

March ! 

Then from thy mountains, ribbed with 

snow, 
Once more thy rousing bugle blow, 
And East and West, and to and fro, 
Annoimce thy coming to the foe, 

March ! 

Say to the picket, chilled and numb ; 
Say to the camp's impatient hum ; 
Say to the trumpet and the drum : 
• ' Lift up your hearts, I come ! I 
come ! " 

March ! 

Cry to the waiting hosts that stray 
On sandy seasides, far away, 
By marshy isle and gleaming bay, 
Where Southern March is Northern 
May: 

March ! 

Announce thyself with welcome noise, 
Where Glory's victor-eagles poise 
Above the proud, heroic boys 
Of Iowa and Illinois : 

March! 

Then down the long Potomac's line 
Shout like a storm on hills of pine, 



133 



OCCASIONAL POEMS 



Till ramrods ring and bayonets shine : 
"Advance! The Chieftain's call is 
mine, — 

March ! " 

March 1, 1862. 

EUPHORION 

" I will not longer 
Earth-bound linger : 
Loosen your hold on 
Hand and on ringlet, 
Girdle and garment ; 
Leave them : they 're mine ! " 

" Bethink thee, bethink thee 
To whom thou belongest ! 
Say, wouldst thou wound us, 
Rudely destroying 
Threefold the beauty, — 
Mine, his, and thine ? " 

Faust, Second Part. 

Nay, fold your arms, beloved Friends, 
Above the hearts that vainly beat ! 

Or catch the rainbow where it bends, 
And find your darling at its feet ; 

Or fix the fountain's varying shape, 
The sunset-cloud's elusive dye, 

The speech of winds that round the 
cape 
Make music to the sea and sky : 

So may you summon from the air 
The loveliness that vanished hence, 

And Twilight give his beauteous hair, 
And Morning give his countenance, 

And Life about his being clasp 
Her rosy girdle once again : — 

But no ! let go your stubborn grasp 
On some wild hope, and take your 
pain! 

For, through the crystal of your tears, 
His love and beauty fairer shine ; 

The shadows of advancing years 
Draw back, and leave him all divine. 

And Death, that took him, cannot 
claim 
The smallest vesture of his birth; — 
The little life, a dancing flame 
That hovered o'er the hills of 
earth, — 

The finer soul, that unto ours 
A subtle perfume seemed to be, 



Like incense blown from April flow- 
ers 
Beside the scarred and stormy 
tree, — 

The wondering eyes, that ever saw 
Some fleeting mystery in the air, 

And felt the stars of evening draw 
His heart to silence, childhood's 
prayer ! 

Our suns were all too fierce for him ; 

Our rude winds pierced him through 
and through : 
But Heaven has valleys cool and dim, 

And boscage sweet with starry dew. 

There knowledge breathes in balmy 
air, 
Not wrung, as here, with panting 
breast : 
The wisdom born of toil you share ; 
But he, the wisdom born of rest. 

For every picture here that slept, 
A living canvas is unrolled ; 

The silent harp he might have swept 
Leans to his touch its strings of 
gold. 

Believe, dear Friends, they murmur 
still 

Some sweet accord to those you play, 
That happier winds of Eden thrill 

With echoes of the earthly lay ; 

That he, for every triumph won, 
Whereto your poet-souls aspire, 

Sees opening in that perfect sun, 
Another blossom's bud of fire! 

Each song, of Love and Sorrow born, 
Another flower to crown your 
boy,— 
Each shadow here his ray of morn, 
Till Grief shall clasp the hand of 
Joy! 

1862. 



A THOUSAND YEARS 

A thousand years! Through storm 
and fire, 
With varying fate, the work has 
grown, 



THE NEVA 



*39 



Till Alexander crowns the spire, 
Where Rurik laid the corner-stone. 

The chieftain's sword, that could not 
rust, 

But bright in constant battle grew, 
Raised to the world a throne august, — 

A nation grander than he knew. 

Nor he, alone ; but those who have, 
Through faith or deed, an equal 
part : 

The subtle brain of Yaroslav, 
Vladimir's arm and Nikon's heart : 

The later hands, that built so well 
The work sublime which these be- 
gan, 
And up from base to pinnacle 
Wrought out the Empire's mighty 
plan. 

All these, to-day, are crowned anew, 
And rule in splendor where they 
trod, 
While Russia's children throng to 
view 
Her holy cradle, Novgorod. 

From Volga's banks; from Dwina's 
side ; 
From pine-clad Ural, dark and long ; 
Or where the foaming Terek's tide 
Leaps down from Kasbek, bright 
with song : 

From Altai's chain of mountain-cones ; 

Mongolian deserts, far and free ; 
And lands that bind, through chang- 
ing zones, 

The Eastern and the Western sea ! 

To every race she gives a home, 
And creeds and laws enjoy her 
shade, 

Till, far beyond the dreams of Rome, 
Her Caesar's mandate is obeyed. 

She blends the virtues they impart, 
And holds, within her life combined, 

The patient faith of Asia's heart, — 
The force of Europe's restless mind. 

She bids the nomad's wanderings 
cease ; 
She binds the wild marauder fast ; 



Her ploughshares turn to homes of 
peace 
The battle-fields of ages past. 

And, nobler yet, she dares to know 
Her future's task, nor knows in 
vain ; 
But strikes at once the generous blow 



So, firmer-based, her power expands, 
Nor yet has seen its crowning 
hour, — 
Still teaching to the struggling lands 
That Peace the offspring is of 
Power. 

Build, then, the storied bronze, to 
tell 
The steps whereby this height she 
trod, — 
The thousand years that chronicle 
The toil of Man, the help of God ! 

And may the thousand years to 
come, — 
The future ages, wise and free, — 
Still see her flag, and hear her drum 
Across the world, from sea to 
sea! — 

Still find, a symbol stern and grand, 
Her ancient eagle's wings unshorn : 

One head to watch the Western land, 
And one to guard the land of morn ! 

Novgorod, Russia, 1862. 



THE NEVA 

I walk, as in a dream, 
Beside the sweeping stream, 
Wrapped in the summer midnight's 
amber haze : 
Serene the temples stand, 
And sleep, on either hand, 
The palace-fronts along the granite 
quays. 

Where golden domes, remote, 

Above the sea-mist float, 
The river-arms, dividing, hurry forth ; 

And Peter's fortress-spire, 

A slender lance of fire, 
Still sparkles back the splendor of the 
North. 



140 



OCCASIONAL POEMS 



The pillared angel soars 
Above the silent shores ; 
Dark from his rock the horseman 
hangs in air ; 
And down the watery line 
The exiled Sphinxes pine 
For Karnak's morning in the mellow 
glare. 

I hear, amid the hush, 
The restless current's rush, 
The Neva murmuring through his 
crystal zone : 
A voice portentous, deep, 
To charm a monarch's sleep 
With dreams of power resistless as his 
own. 

Strong from the stormy Lake, 
Pure from the springs that break 
In Valdai" vales the forest's mossy 
floor, 
Greener than beryl-stone 
From fir-woods vast and lone, 
In one full stream the braided currents 
pour. 

' ' Build up your granite piles 

Around my trembling isles," 
I hear the River's scornful Genius say: 

" Raise for eternal time 

Your palaces sublime, 
And flash your golden turrets in the 
day! 

' ' But in my waters cold 

A mystery I hold, — 
Of empires and of dynasties the fate : 

I bend my haughty will, 

Unchanged, unconquered still, 
And smile to note your triumph : mine 
can wait. 

"Your fetters I allow, 
As a strong man may bow 
His sportive neck to meet a child's 
command, 
And curb the conscious power 
That in one awful hour 
Could whelm your halls and temples 
where they stand. 

"When infant Rurik first 
His Norseland mother nursed, 
My willing flood the future chieftain 
bore : 



To Alexander's fame 
I lent my ancient name, 
What time my waves ran red with 
Pagan gore. 

" Then Peter came. I laughed 
To feel his little craft 
Borne on my bosom round the marshy 
isles : 
His daring dream to aid, 
My chafing floods I laid, 
And saw my shores transfixed with ar- 
rowy piles. 

' ' I wait the far-off day 
When other dreams shall sway 
The House of Empire builded by my 
side, — 
Dreams that already soar 
From yonder palace -door, 
And cast their wavering colors on my 
tide, — 

' ' Dreams where white temples rise 

Below the purple skies, 
By waters blue, which winter never 
frets, — 

Where trees of dusky green 

From terraced gardens lean, 
And shoot on high the reedy minarets. 

" Shadows of mountain-peaks 
Vex my unshadowed creeks ; 
Dark woods o'erhang my silvery 
birchen bowers ; 
And islands, bald and high, 
Break my clear round of sky, 
And ghostly odors blow from distant 
flowers. 

" Then, ere the cold winds chase 
These visions from my face, 

I see the starry phantom of a crown, 
Beside whose blazing gold 
This cheating pomp is cold, 

A moment hover, as the veil drops 
down. 

"Build on ! That day shall see 
My streams forever free. 
Swift as the wind, and silent as the 
snow, 
The frost shall split each wall : 
Your domes shall crack and fall : 
My bolts of ice shall strike your barri- 
ers low 1 " 



FROM THE NORTH 



On palace, temple, spire, 
The morn's descending fire 

In thousand sparkles o'er the city fell : 
Life's rising murmur drowned 
The Neva where he wound 

Between his isles : he keeps his secret 
well. 

1863. 



A STORY FOR A CHILD 



Little one, come to my knee ! 

Hark how the rain is pouring 
Over the roof, in the pitch-black night, 

And the wind in the woods a-roar- 



in°;! 



it 



Hush, my darling, and listen, 

Then pay for the story with kisses: 

Father was lost in the pitch-black 
night, 
In just such a storm as this is! 

ni 

High up on the lonely mountains, 
Where the wild men watched and 
waited; 
Wolves in the forest, and bears in the 
bush, 
And I on my path belated. 



The rain and the night together 
Came down, and the wind came after, 

Bending the props of the pine-tree roof 
And snapping many a rafter. 



I crept along in the darkness, 

Stunned, and bruised, and blinded — 

Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs, 
And a sheltering rock behind it. 

VI 

There, from the blowing and raining 
Crouching, I sought to hide me : 

Something rustled, two green eyes 
shone, 
And a wolf lay down beside me. 



Little one, be not frightened 
I and the wolf together, 



Side by side, through the Ions 
night, 
Hid from the awful weather. 



141 

lonsr 



His wet fur pressed against me ; 

Each of us warmed the other : 
Each of us felt, in the stormy dark, 

That beast and man was brother. 



And when the falling forest 
No longer crashed in warning, 

Each of us went from our hiding- 
place 
Forth in the wild, wet morning. 



Darling, kiss me payment ! 

Hark how the wind is roaring : 
Father's house is a better place 

When the stormy rain is pouring ! 

1861. 



FROM THE NORTH 

Once more without you! Sighing, 
Dear, once more, 

For all the sweet, accustomed minis- 
tries 

Of wife and mother : not as when the 
seas 

That parted us my tender message 
bore 

From the gray olives of the Cretan 
shore 

To those that hide the broken Phidian 
frieze 

Of our Athenian home, — but far de- 
grees, 

Wide plains, great forests, part us now. 
My door 

Looks on the rushing Neva, cold and 
clear : 

The swelling domes in hovering splen- 
dor lie 

Like golden bubbles, eager to be 
gone; 

But the chill crystal of the atmos- 
phere 

Withholds them, and along the 
northern sky 

The amber midnight smiles in dreams 
of dawn. 

1862. 



142 



OCCASIONAL POEMS 



A WEDDING SONNET 

TO T. B. A. AND L. W. 

Sad Autumn, drop thy weedy crown 

forlorn, 
Put off thy cloak of cloud, thy scarf 

of mist, 
And dress in gauzy gold and amethyst 
A day benign, of sunniest influence 

born, 
As may befit a Poet's marriage morn! 
Give buds another dream, another 

tryst 
To loving hearts, and print on lips 

unkissed 
Betrothal-kisses, laughing Spring to 

scorn ! 
Yet, if unfriendly thou, with sullen 

skies, 
Bleak rains, or moaning winds, dost 

menace wrong, 
Here art thou foiled : a bridal sun 

shall rise 
And bridal emblems unto these belong. 
Round her the sunshine of her beauty 

lies, 
And breathes round "him the spring- 
time of his song ! 
1865. 

CHRISTMAS SONNETS 
i 

TO G. H. B. 

If that my hand, like yours, dear 

George, were skilled 
To win from Wordsworth's scanty 

plot of ground 
A shining harvest, such as you have 

found, 
Where strength and grace, fraternally 

fulfilled, 
As in those sheaves whose rustling 

glories gild 
The hills of August, folded are, and 

bound ; 
So would I draw my loving tillage 

round 
Its borders, bid the gentlest rains be 

spilled, 
The goldenest suns its happy growth 

compel, 
And bind for you the ripe, redundant 

grain : 



But, ah ! you stand amid your songful 

sheaves, 
So rich, this weed-born flower you 

might disdain, 
Save that of me its growth and color 

tell, 
And of my love some perfume haunt 

its leaves ! 



ii 

TO K. H. S. 



Each, 



The years go by, old Friend ! 

as it fleets, 
Moves to a farther, fairer realm, the 

time 
When first we twain the pleasant land 

of Rhyme 
Discovered, choosing side by side our 

seats 
Below our separate Gods : in midnight 

streets 
And haunted attics flattered by the 

chime 
Of silver words, and, fed by faith sub- 
lime, 
I Shelley's mantle wore, you that of 

Keats, — 
Dear dreams, that marked the Muse's 

childhood then, 
Nor now to be disowned ! The years 

goby; 
The clear- eyed . Goddess flatters us no 

more ; 
And yet, I think, in soberer aims of 

men, 
And Song's severer service, you and I 
Are nearer, dearer, faithfuller than 

before. 

in 

TO E. C. S. 

When days were long, and o'er that 

farm of mine, 
Green Cedarcroft, the summer breezes 

blew, 
And from the walnut shadows [I and 

you, 
Dear Edmund, saw the red lawn-roses 

shine, 
Or followed our idyllic Brandy wine 
Through meadows flecked with many 

a flowery hue, 
To where with wild Arcadian pomp I 

drew 



CHANT 

among the 



143 



Your Bacchic march 

startled kine, 
You gave me, linked with old Ma^on- 

ides, 
Your loving sonnet, — record dear and 

true 
Of days as dear : and now, when suns 

are brief, 
And Christmas snows are on the naked 

trees, 
I give you this, — a withered wunter 

leaf, 
Yet with your blossom from one root 

it grew. 

IV 
TO J. L. G. 

If I could touch with Petrarch's pen 

this strain 
Of graver song, and shape to liquid 

flow 
Of soft Italian syllables the glow 
That warms my heart, my tribute 

were not vain : 
But how shall I such measured sweet- 
ness gain 
As may your golden nature fitly show, 
And with the heart-light shine, that 

fills you so, 
It pales the graces of the cultured 

brain? 
Long have I known, Love better is 

than Fame, 
And Love hath crowned you : yet if 

any bay 
Cling to my chaplet when the years 

have fled, 
And I am dust, may this which bears 

your name 
Cling latest, that my love's result 

shall stay 
When that which mine ambition 

wrought is dead. 



A STATESMAN 

He knew the mask of principle to 

wear, 
And power accept while seeming to 

decline : 
So cunningly he wrought, with tools 

so fine, 
Setting his courses with so frank an 

air, 



(Yet most secure when seeming most 

to dare,) 

He did deceive us all: with mien be- 
nign 
His malice smiled, his cowardice the 

sign 
Of courage took, his selfishness grew 

fair, 
So deftly could his foiled ambition 

show 
A modest acquiescence. Now, 't is 

clear 
What man he is, — how false his high 

report ; 
Mean to the friend, caressing to the 

foe ; 
Plotting the mischief which he feigns 

to fear ; 
Chief Eunuch, were but ours the 

Sultan's court ! 

1865. 

CHANT 

FOR THE BRYANT FESTIVAL 

November 5, 1864 

One hour be silent, sounds of war ! 

Delay the battle he foretold, 
And let the Bard's triumphant star 

Send down from heaven its milder 
gold ! 

Let Fame, that plucks but laurel now 
For loyal heroes, turn away, 

And twine, to crown our poet's brow, 
The greener garland of the bay. 

For he, our earliest minstrel, 
Fills the land with echoes, sweet and 
long, 

Gives language to her silent hills, 
And bids her rivers move to song. 

The Phosphor of the Nation's dawn, 
Sole risen above our tuneless coast, 

As Hesper now, his lamp burns on, — 
The leader of the starry host. 

He sings of mountains and of streams, 

Of storied field and haunted dale, 
Yet hears a voice through all his 
dreams, 
Which says: " The Good shall yet 
prevail." 



144 



OCCASIONAL POEMS 



He sings of Truth, he sings of 
Right ; 

He sings of Freedom, and hi* strains 
March with our armies to the fight, 

Ring in the bondman's falling chains. 



God, bid him live, till in her place 
Truth, crushed to earth, again shall 
rise, — 

The "mother of a mighty race" 
Fulfil her poet's prophecies ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

1861-1871 



A DAY m MARCH 

Look forth, Beloved, from thy man- 
sion high, 

By soft airs fanned, 
And see the summer from her bluest sky 
Surprise the land ! 

See how the bare hills bask in purple 
bliss 

Along the south : 
On the brown death of winter falls a 
kiss 

From summer's mouth ! 

From pines that weave, among the 
ravished trees, 

Their phantom bowers, 
A murmur comes, as sought the ghosts 
of bees 

The ghosts of flowers. 

Though yet no blood may swell the 
willow rind, 

Xo grass-blade start, 
A dream of blossoms fills the yearning 
wind, 

Of love, my heart. 

Look forth, Beloved, through the ten- 
der air, 

And let thine eyes 
The violets be, it finds not anywhere, 

And scentless dies. 

Look, and thy trembling locks of plen- 
teous gold 

The day shall see, 
And search no more where first, on yon- 
der wold, 

The cowslips be. 

Look, and the wandering summer not 
forlorn 

Shall turn aside, 



Content to leave her million flowers 
unborn, 

Her songs untried. 

Drowsy with life and not with sleep or 
death 

I dream of thee : 
Breathe forth thy being in one answer- 
ing breath, 

And come to me ! 

Come forth, Beloved ! Love's exultant 
sign 

Is in the sky : 
And let me lay my panting heart to 
thine 

And die ! 
1861. 

THE TEST 

"Farewell awhile, my bonnie dar- 
ling ! 

One long, close kiss, and I depart : 
I hear the angry trumpet snarling, 

The drum-beat tingles at my heart." 

Behind him, softest flutes were breath- 
ing, 
Across the vale their sweet recall ; 
Before him burst the battle, seeth- 
ing 
In flame beneath its thunder-pall. 

All sights and sounds to stay invited ; 

The meadows tossed their foam of 
flowers ; 
The lingering Day beheld, delighted, 

The dances of his amorous Hours. 

He paused : again the foul temptation 
Assailed his heart, so firm before, 

And tender dreams, of Love's crea- 
tion, 
Persuaded from the peaceful shore. 



148 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

he sternly cried; "I fol 



' ' But no ! 
low 

The trumpet, not the shepherd's 
reed. 
Let idlers pipe in pastoral hollow, — 
Be mine the sword, and mine the 
deed! 

"Farewell to Love !" he murmured, 
sighing : 
' ' Perchance I lose what most is dear : 
But better there, struck down and dy- 
ing, 
Than be a man, and wanton here ! " 

He went where battle's voice was loud- 
est ; 
He pressed where danger nearest 
came ; 
His hand advanced, among the proud- 
est, 
Their banner through the lines of 
flame. 

And there, when wearied Carnage fal- 
tered, 
He, foremost of the fallen, lay, 
While Night looked down with brow 
unaltered, 
And breathed the battle's dust away. 

There lying, sore from wounds un- 
tended, 

A vision crossed the starry gleam : 
The girl he loved beside him bended, 

And kissed him in his fever-dream. 

"O love!" she cried, "you fled, to 
find me ; 
I left with you the daisied vale ; 
I turned from flutes that wailed be- 
hind me, 
To hear your trumpet's distant hail. 

"Your tender vows, your peaceful 
kisses, 
They scarce outlived the moment's 
breath ; 
But now we clasp immortal blisses 
Of Passion proved on brinks of 
Death! 

" No fate henceforward shall estrange 
her 
Who finds a heart more brave than 
fond; 



For Love, forsook this side of danger, 
Waits for the man who goes be- 
yond ! * 

1862. 

CANOPUS 

A LEAF FROM THE PAST 

Above the palms, the peaks of pearly 
gray 
That hang, like dreams, along the 
slumbering skies, 
An urn of fire that never burns away, 
I see Canopus rise. 

An urn of light, a golden-hearted torch, 
Voluptuous, drowsy-throbbing mid 
the stars, 
As, incense-fed, from Aphrodite's 
porch 
Lifted, to beacon Mars. 

Is it from songs and stories of the Past, 
With names and scenes that make 
our planet fair, — 
From Babylonian splendors, vague and 
vast, 
And flushed Arabian air : 

Or sprung from richer longings of the 
brain 
And spices of the blood, this hot de- 
sire 
To lie beneath that mellow lamp again 
And breathe its languid fire ? 

From tales of nights when watching 
David saw 
Its amorous ray on bright Bath- 
sheba's head ; 
Or Charmian stole, the golden gauze 
to draw 
Round Cleopatra's bed ? 

Or when white-breasted Paris touched 
the lone 
Laconian isle, where stayed his fly- 
ing oars, 
And Helen breathed the scent of vio- 
lets, blown 
Along the bosky shores ? 

Or Kalidasa's maiden, wandering 
through 
The moonlit jungles of the Indian 
lands, 



CUPIDO 



149 



While shamed mimosas from her form 
withdrew 

Their thin and trembling hands ? 

For Fancy takes from Passion power 
to Dili Id 
A brighter fane than bloodless 
Thought decrees, 
And loves to see its spacious chambers 
filled 
With tropic tapestries. 

And, past those halls which for itself 
the mind 
Builds, permanent as marble, and 
as cold, 
In warm surprises of the blood we find 
The sumptuous dream unfold ! 

There shines the leaf and bursts the 
blossom sheath 
On hills deep-mantled in eternal 
June, 
Or wave their whispering silver, un- 
derneath 
The rainbow-cinctured moon. 

Around the pillars of the palm-tree 
bower 
The orchids cling, in rose and purple 
spheres ; 
Shield-broad the lily floats ; the aloe 
flower 
Foredates its hundred years. 

Along the lines of coral, white and 
warm, 
Breaks the white surf ; hushed is 
the glassy air, 
And only mellower murmurs tell that 
storm 
Is raging otherwhere. 

The mansion gleams with dome and 
arch Moresque — 
Ah, bliss to lie beside the jasper urn 
Of founts, and through the open ara- 
besque 
To watch Canopus burn ! 

To sit at feasts, and fluid odors drain 

Of daintiest nectar that from grape 

is caught, 

"While faint narcotics cheat the idle 

brain 

With phantom shapes of thought ; 



Or, listening to the sweet, seductive 
voice, 
No will hath silenced, since the 
world began, 
To weigh delight unchallenged, 
making choice 
Of earlier joys of man! 

Permit the dream : our natures two- 
fold are. 
Sense hath its own ideals, which 
prepare 
A rosy background for the soul's white 
star, 
Whereon it shines more fair. 

Not crystal runs, dissolved from 
mountain snow, 
The poet's blood ; but amber, 
musk, impart 
Their scents, and gems their orbed or 
shivered glow, 
To feed his tropic heart. 

While Form and Color undivorced 
remain 
In every planet gilded by the sun, 
His craft shall forge the radiant mar- 
riage-chain 
That makes them purely One ! 

1865. 

CUPIDO 

THE REVIVAL OF AN ANTIQUATED 
FIGURE, AFTER READING THE 
VIEWS OF CERTAIN WOMEN ON 
MARRIAGE AND DIVORCE 



Roseate darling, 
Dimpled with laughter, 
Nursed on the bosom 
Pierced by thee after ; 
Fed with the rarest 
Milk of the fairest 
Fond Aphrodite, 
Child as thou art, as a god thou art 
mighty ! 



Thou art the only 
Demigod left us ; 
Fate hath bereft us, 
Science made lonely. 



: 5o 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Visions and fables 
Shrink from, our portals ; 
Long have we banished 
The stately Immortals ; 
Yet, when we sent them 
Trooping to Hades — 
Olympian gentlemen, 
Paphian ladies — 
Thou hadst re-risen, 
Ere the dark prison 
Closed for the last time, 
Slipped from the gate and returned to 
thy pastime ! 



Ever a mystery, 
All of our history 
Brightens with thee ! 
Systems have chained us, 
Rulers restrained us, 
Fortune disdained us, 
Still thou wert free ! 
Lofty or lowly, 
Brutish or holy, 
Spacious or narrow, 
Never a life was secure from thy 
arrow ! 



Ah, but they 've told us 
Love is a system ! 
They would withhold us 
When we have kissed him ! 
All that perplexes 
Sweetly the sexes 
They would control, 
And with Affinity 
Drive the Divinity 
Out of the soul ! 
Better, they say, is 
Phryne or Lai's 
Than the immutable 
Faith, and its suitable 
Vow, he hath taught us ; 
Foolish the tender 
Pang, the surrender, 
When he has caught us ; 
Fancies and fetters are all he has 
brought us. 



Future parental, 
Physical, mental 
Laws they prescribe us ; 
And with ecstatic 
Strict mathematic 
Blisses would bribe us. 



Alkali, acid, 
They with a placid 
Mien would unite, 
And the wild rapture 
Of chasing and capture 
Curb with a right ; 
Measuring, dealing 
Even the kiss of the twilight of feeling ! 



Who shall deliver 
Thee from their credo ? 
Rent is thy quiver, 
Darling Cupido ! 
Naked, yet blameless, 
Tricksily aimless, 
Secretly sure, 
Who, then, thy plighting, 
Wilful uniting, 
Now will endure ? 
Now, when experiment 
Based upon Science 
Sets at defiance, 
Harshly, thy merriment, 
Who shall caress thee 
Warm in his bosom, and bliss thee and 
bless thee ? 

VII 

Ever 't is May-time ! 
Ever 't is play-time 
Of Beauty and Youth! 
Freed from confusion, 
Hides in illusion 
Nature her truth. 
Books and discourses, 
What can they tell us ? 
Blood with its forces 
Still will compel us ! 
Cold ones may fly to 
Systems, or try to ; 
Innocent fancy 
Still will enwind us, 
Love's necromancy 
Snare us and bind us, 
Systems and rights lie forgotten be- 
hind us. 



1870. 



THE SLEEPER 



The glen was fair as some Arcadian 

dell, 
All shadow, coolness, and the rush 

of streams, 
Save where the sprinkled blaze of 

noonday fell 



THE SLEEPER 



Like stars within its under-sky of 

dreams. 
Rich leaf and blossomed grape and 

fern-tuft made 
Odors of life and slumber through 

the shade. 

"0 peaceful heart of Nature ! " was 
my sigh ; 
"How dost thou shame, in thine 
unconscious bliss, 

Thy sure accordance with the chang- 
ing sky, 

quiet heart, the restless beat of 

this ! 
Take thou the place false friends have 

vacant left, 
And bring thy bounty to repair the 

theft ! " 

So sighing, weary with the unsoothed 
pain 
From insect-stings of women and of 
men, 
Uneasy heart and ever-baffled brain, 

1 breathed the lonely beauty of the 

glen, 
And from the fragrant shadows where 

she stood 
Evoked the shyest Dryad of the wood. 

Lo! on a slanting rock, outstretched 
at length, 
A woodman lay in slumber, fair as 
death, 

His limbs relaxed in all their supple 
strength, 
His lips half parted with his easy 
breath, 

And by one gleam of hovering light 
caressed 

His bare brown arm and white uncov- 
ered breast. 

"Why comes he here ?" I whispered, 

treading soft 
The hushing moss beside his flinty 

bed; 
" Sweet are the haycocks in yon 

clover-croft, — 
The meadow turf were light beneath 

his head : 
Could he not slumber by the orchard - 

tree, 
And leave this quiet unprofaned for 

me?" 



J 5i 

I bent, 
?ate- 



But something held my step. 

and scanned 
(As one might view a veiny a^ 

stone) 
The hard, half -open fingers of his 

hand, 
Strong cords of wrist, knit round 

the jointed bone, 
And sunburnt muscles, firm and full 

of power, 
But harmless now as petals of a flower. 

There lay the unconscious Life, but, 

ah ! more fair 
Than ever blindly stirred in leaf and 

bark, — 
Warmth, beauty, passion, mystery 

everywhere, 
Beyond the Dryad's feebly burning 

spark 
Of cold poetic being : who could 

say 
If here the angel or the wild beast 

lay? 

Then I looked up, and read his help- 
less face : 
Peace touched the temples and the 
eyelids, slept 

On drooping lashes, made itself a 
place 
In smiles that slowly to the corners 
crept 

Of parting lips, and came and went, 
to show 

The happy freedom of the heart below. 

A holy rest ! wherein the man became 

Man's interceding representative : 
In Sleep's white realm fell off his mask 

of blame, 
And he was sacred, for that he did 

live. 
His presence marred no more the quiet 

deep, 
But all the glen became a shrine of 

Sleep ! 

And then I mused : how lovely this 
repose ! 
How the shut sense its dwelling 
consecrates ! 
Sleep guards itself against the hands 
of foes ; 
Its breath disarms the Envies and 
the Hates 



*5 2 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Which haunt our lives : were this 
mine enemy, 

My stealthy watch could not less rev- 
erent be ! 

So hang their hands, that would have 
done me wrong ; 
So sweet their breathing, whose un- 
kindly spite 

Provoked the bitter measures of my 
song ; 
So might they slumber, sacred in 
my sight, 

Or I in theirs: — why waste conten- 
tious breath ? 

Forget, like Sleep ; and then forgive, 
like Death ! 

1865. 



MY FARM: A FABLE 

Within a green and pleasant land 

I own a favorite plantation, 
Whose woods and meads, if rudely 
planned, 
Are still, at least, my own creation. 
Some genial sun or kindly shower 
Has here and there wooed forth a 
flower, 
And touched the fields with expecta- 
tion. 

I know what feeds the soil I till, 
What harvest-growth it best pro- 
duces : 
My forests shape themselves at will, 
My grapes mature their proper 
juices. 
I know the brambles and the 

weeds, 
But know the fruits and whole- 
some seeds, — 
Of those the hurt, of these the uses. 

And working early, working late, 

Directing crude and random Nature, 
'T is joy to see my small estate 

Grow fairer in the slightest feature. 
If but a single wild -rose blow, 
Or fruit-tree bend with April snow, 
That day am I the happiest creature ! 

But round the borders of the land 
Dwell many neighbors, fond of rov- 
ing ; 



With curious eye and prying hand 
About my fields I see them mov- 
ing. 
Some tread my choicest herbage 

down, 
And some of weeds would weave 
a crown, 
And bid me wear it, unreproving. 

"What trees ! " says one ; " who ever 
saw 
A grove, like this, of my possess- 
ing? 
This vale offends my upland's law ; 
This sheltered garden needs sup- 
pressing. 
My rocks this grass would never 

yield, 
And how absurd the level field ! 
What here will grow is past my 
guessing." 

" Behold the slope! " another cries: 
"No sign of bog or meadow near 
it! 
A varied surface I despise: 
There's not a stagnant pool to cheer 
it ! " 
"Why plough at all ? " remarked 

a third. 
"Heaven help the man ! " a fourth 
I heard, — 
' ' His farm 's a jungle : let him clear 
it !" 

No friendly counsel I disdain : 

My fields are free to every comer ; 
Yet that which one to praise is fain 
But makes another's visage glum- 
mer. 
I bow them out, and welcome 

in, 
But while I seek some truth to 
win, 
Goes by, unused, the golden sum- 
mer ! 

Ah ! vain the hope to find in each 

The wisdom each denies the other ; 
These mazes of conflicting speech 
All theories of culture smother. 
I'll raise and reap, with honest 

hand, 
The native harvest of my land ; 
Do thou the same, my wiser brother ! 



HARPOCRATES 



*53 



HARPOCRATES 



" The rest is silence. 



Hamlet. 



The message of the god I seek 

In voice, in vision, or in dream, 
Alike on frosty Dorian peak, 

Or by the slow Arcadian stream : 
Where'er the oracle is heard, 

I bow the head and bend the knee 
In dream, in vision, or in word, 

The sacred secret reaches me. 



Athwart the dim Trophonian caves, 

Bat -like, the gloomy whisper flew ; 
The lisping plash of Paphian waves 

Bathed every pulse in fiery dew: 
From Phoebus, on his cloven hill, 

A shaft of beauty pierced the air, 
And oaks of gray Dodona still 

Betrayed the Thunderer's presence 
there. 



The warmth of love, the grace of art, 

The joys that breath and blood ex- 
press, 
The desperate forays of the heart 

Into an unknown wilderness, — 
All these I know : but sterner needs 

Demand the knowledge which must 
dower 
The life that on achievement feeds, 

The grand activity of power. 



What each reveals the shadow throws 

Of something unrevealed behind ; 
The Secret's lips forever close 

To mock the secret undivined: 
Thence late I came, from weary dreams 

The son of Isis to implore, 
Whose temple -front of granite gleams 

Across the Desert's yellow floor. 



Lo ! where the sand, insatiate, drinks 

The steady splendor of the air, 
Crouched on her heavy paws, the 
Sphinx 
Looks forth with old, unwearied 
stare ! 
Behind her, on the burning wall, 
The long processions flash and glow : 



The pillared shadows of the hall 
Sleep with their lotus-crowns be- 
low. 

VI 

A square of dark beyond, the door 

Breathes out the deep adytum's 
gloom : 
I cross the court's deserted floor, 

And stand within the sacred room. 
The priests repose from finished rite ; 

No echo rings from pavements trod ; 
And sits alone, in swarthy light, 

The naked child, the temple's god. 



No sceptre, orb, or mystic toy 

Proclaims his godship, young and 
warm 
He sits alone, a naked boy, 

Clad in the beauty of his form. 
Dark, solemn stars, of radiance mild, 

His eyes illume the golden shade, 
And sweetest lips that never smiled 

The finger hushes, on them laid. 

VIII 

O, never yet in trance or dream 

That falls when crowned desire has 
died, 
So breathed the air of power supreme, 

So breathed, and calmed, and satis- 
fied! 
Those mystic lips were not unsealed 

The temple's awful hush to break, 
But unto inmost sense revealed, 

The deity his message spake : 



"If me thou knowest, stretch thy hand 
And my possessions thou shalt 
reach : 
I grant no help, I break no band, 
I sit above the gods that teach. 
The latest-born, my realm includes 
The old, the strong, the near, the 
far, — 
Serene beyond their changeful moods, 
And fixed as Night's unmoving 
star. 



"A child, I leave the dance of Earth 
To be my horned mother's care: 

My father Ammon's Bacchic mirth, 
Delighting gods, I may not share. 



154 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



I turn from Beauty, Love, and Power, 

In singing vale, on laughing sea ; 
From Youth and Hope, and wait the 
hour 
When weary Knowledge turns to 
me. 

XI 

"Beneath my hand the sacred springs 

Of Man's mysterious being burst, 
And Death within my shadow brings 

The last of life, to greet the first. 
There is no god, or grand or fair, 

On Orcan or Olympian field, 
But must to me his treasures bear, 

His one peculiar secret yield. 



"I wear no garment, drop no shade 

Before the eyes that all things see ; 
My worshippers, howe'er arrayed, 
Come in their nakedness to me. 
The forms of life like gilded towers 
May soar, in air and sunshine 
drest, — 
The home of Passions and of Pow- 
ers, — 
Yet mine the crypts whereon they 
rest. 

XIII 

"Embracing all, sustaining all, 

Consoling with unuttered lore, 
Who finds me in my voiceless hall 

Shall need the oracles no more. 
I am the knowledge that insures 

Peace, after Thought's bewildering 
range ; 
I am the patience that endures ; 

I am the truth that cannot change ! " 



RUN WILD 

Heke was the gate. The broken 
paling, 
As if before the wind, inclines, 
The posts half rotted, and the pickets 
failing, 
Held only up by vines. 

The plum-trees stand, though gnarled 
and speckled 
With leprosy of old disease ; 
By cells of wormy life the trunks are 
freckled, 
And moss enfolds their knees. 



I push aside the boughs and enter : 

Alas! the garden's nymph has fled, 
With every charm that leaf and blos- 
som lent her, 
And left a hag instead. 

Some female satyr from the thicket, 

Child of the bramble and the weed, 
Sprang shouting over the unguarded 
wicket 
With all her savage breed. 

She banished hence the ordered graces 
That smoothed a way for Beauty's 
feet, 
And gave her ugliest imps the vacant 
places, 
To spoil what once was sweet. 

Here, under rankling mulleins, dwin- 
dle 
The borders, hidden long ago ; 
Here shoots the dock in many a rusty 
spindle, 
And purslane creeps below. 

The thyme runs wild, and vainly 
sweetens, 
Hid from its bees, the conquering 
grass ; 
And even the rose with briery menace 
threatens 
To tear me as I pass. 

Where show the weeds a grayer color, 

The stalks of lavender and rue 
Stretch like imploring arms, — but, 
ever duller, 
They slowly perish too. 

Only the pear-tree's fruitless scion 
Exults above the garden's fall ; 
Only the thick-maned ivy, like a lion, 
Devours the crumbling wall. 

What still survives becomes as savage 

As that which entered to destroy, 
Taking an air of riot and of ravage, 
Of strange and wanton joy. 

No copse unpruned, no mountain hoL 

low, 

So lawless in its growth may be : 

Where the wild weeds have room to 

chase and follow, 

They graceful are, and free. 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS 



: 55 



But Xature here attempts revenges 

For her obedience unto toil ; 
She brings her rankest life with loath- 
some changes 
To smite the fattened soil. 

For herbs of sweet and wholesome 
savor 
She plants her stems of bitter juice : 
From flowers she steals the scent, from 
fruits the flavor, 
From homelier things the use. 

Her angel is a mocking devil, 

If once the law relax its bands ; 
In Man's neglected fields she holds 
her revel. 
Takes back, and spoils his lands. 

Once having broken ground, he never 

The virgin sod can plant again: 
The soil demands his services for- 
ever. — 
And God gives sun and rain ! 

1868. 



SONNET 

Where should the Poet's home and 

household be ? 
Beneath what skies, in what untrou- 
bled air 
Sings he for very joy of songs so fair 
That in their steadfast laws he most is 

free ? 
In woods remote, where darkly tree on 

tree 
Let fall their curtained shadows, to 

ensnare 
His dreams, or hid in Fancy's happiest 

lair, — 
Some laughing island of the stormless 

sea ? 
Ah, never such to him their welcome 

gave ! 
But. flattered by the gods in finer scorn, 
He drifts upon the world's unresting 

wave. 
As drifts a sea-flower, by the tempest 

torn 
From sheltered porches of the coral 

cave 
Where it expands, of calm and silence 

born. 



"CASA GUIDI WINDOWS" 

Returned to warm existence, — even 

as one 
Sentenced, then blotted from the 

headsman's book, 
Accepts with doubt the life again 

begun, — 
I leave the duress of my couch, and look 
Through Casa Guidi windows to the 

sun. 

A fate like Farinata's held me fast 
In some devouring pit of fever-fire, 
Until, from ceaseless forms of toil that 

cast 
Their will upon me, whirled in end- 
less gyre, 
The Spirit of the House brought help 
at last. 

With Giotto wrestling, through the 
desperate hours 

A thousand crowded frescos must I 
paint, 

Or snatch from twilights dim, and 
dusky bowers, 

Alternate forms of bacchanal and saint, 

The streets of Florence and her beau- 
teous towers. 

Weak, wasted with those torments of 

the brain, 
The circles of the Tuscan master's hell 
Were dreams no more ; but when 

their fiery strain 
Was fiercest, deep and sudden stillness 

fell 
Athwart the storm, and all was peace 

again. 

She came, whom Casa Guidi's cham- 
bers knew, 

And know more proudly, an Immortal, 
now : 

The air without a star was shivered 
through 

With the resistless radiance of her 
brow, 

And glimmering landscapes from the 
darkness grew. 

Thin, phantom-like ; and yet she 
brought me rest. 

Unspoken words, an understood com- 
mand 



i56 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Sealed weary lids with sleep, together 

pressed 
In clasping quiet wandering hand to 

hand, 
And smoothed the folded cloth above 

the breast. 

Now, looking through these windows, 

where the day- 
Shines on a terrace splendid with the 

gold 
Of autumn shrubs, and green with 

glossy bay, 
Once more her face, re-made from 

dust, I hold 
In light so clear it cannot pass away : — 

The quiet brow ; the face so frail and 
fair 

For such a voice of song ; the steady 
eye, 

Where shone the spirit fated to out- 
wear 

Its fragile house ; — and on her features 
lie 

The soft half -shadows of her drooping 
hair. 

Who could forget those features, hav- 
ing known ? 

Whose memory do his kindling rever- 
ence wrong 

That heard the soft Ionian flute, whose 
tone 

Changed with the silver trumpet of 
her song ? 

No sweeter airs from woman's lips 
were 'blown. 

Ah, in the silence she has left be- 
hind 

How many a sorrowing voice of life 
is still ! 

Songless she left the land that cannot 
find 

Song for its heroes ; and the Roman 
hill, 

Once free, shall for her ghost the laurel 
wind. 

The tablet tells you, " Here she wrote 

and died," 
And grateful Florence bids the record 

stand : 
Here bend Italian love and English 

pride 



Above her grave, — and one remoter 

land, 
Free as her prayers would make it, at 

their side. 

I will not doubt the vision: yonder 
see 

The moving clouds that speak of free- 
dom won ! 

And life, new-lighted, with a lark-like 
glee 

Through Casa Guidi windows hails the 
sun, 

Grown from the rest her spirit gave 
to me. 

Florence, 1867. 

PANDORA 

Italy, loved of the sun, 

Wooed of the sweet winds and wed 

by the sea, 
When, since the nations begun, 
Was other inheritance like unto thee ? 

Splendors of sunshine and snows 
Flash from thy peaks to thy bath in 

the brine ; 
Thine are the daisy and rose, 
The grace of the palm and the strength 

of the pine : 

Orchard and harvested plain ; 

Lakes, by the touch of the tempest 

unstirred ; 
Dells where the Dryads remain, 
And mountains that rise to a music 

unheard ? 

Generous gods, at thy birth, 
Heaped on thy cradle with prodigal 

hand 
Gifts, and the darling of earth 
Art thou, and wast ever, O ravishing 

land! 

Strength from the Thunderer came, 
Pride from the goddess that governs 

his board ; 
While, in his forges of flame, 
Hephaestus attempered thine armor 

and sword. 

Lo ! Aphrodite her zone, 
Winning all love to thy loveliness, 
gave; 



SORRENTO 



157 



Leaving her Paphian throne 
To breathe on thy mountains and 
brighten thy wave. 

Bacchus the urns of his wine 

Gave, and the festivals crowning thy 

toil; 
Ceres, the mother divine, 
Bestowed on thee bounties of corn and 

of oil. 

Phoebus the songs that inspire, 
Caught from the airs of Olympus, 

conferred : 
Hermes, the sweetness and fire 
That pierce in the charm of the elo- 
quent word. 

So were thy graces complete ; 

Yea, and, though ruined, they fasci- 
nate now : 

Beautiful still are thy feet, 

And girt with the gold of lost lordship 
thy brow. 

1868. 

SORRENTO 



The gods are gone, the temples over- 
thrown, 
The storms of time the very rocks 
have shaken : 
The Past is mute, save where some 
mouldy stone 
Speaks to confuse, like speech by 
age o'ertaken. 
The pomp that crowned the wind- 
ing shore 
Has fled for evermore : 
Its old magnificence shall never re- 
awaken. 



Where once, against the Grecian ships 
arrayed, 
The Oscan warriors saw their jave- 
lins hurtle, 
The farmer prunes his olives, and the 
maid 
Trips down the lanes in flashing vest 
and kirtle : 
The everlasting laurel now 
Forgets Apollo's brow, 
And, dedicate no more to Venus, 
blooms the myrtle. 



Yet still, as long ago, when this high 
coast 
Phoenician strangers saw, and flying 
Dardans, 
The bounteous earth fulfils her an- 
cient boast 
In mellow fields which Winter never 
hardens ; 
And daisy, lavender, and rose 
Perpetual buds unclose, 
To flood with endless balm the tiers 
of hanging gardens. 

IV 

From immemorial rocks the daffo- 
dil 
Beckons with scented stars, an un- 
reached wonder : 
On sunny banks their wine the hya- 
cinths spill, 
And self -betraying violets bloom 
thereunder ; 
While near and threatening, dim 

and deep, 
The wave assails the steep, 
Or booms in hollow caves with sound 
of smothered thunder. 



Here Nature, dropping once her or- 
dered plan, 
Fashioned all lovely things that 
most might please her — 
A playground guarded from the greed 
of man, 
The childish gauds, wherewith he 
would appease her : 
Her sweetest air, her softest wave 
Reluctantly she gave 
To grace the wealth of Rome, to 
heal the languid Caesar. 



She stationed there Vesuvius, to be 
Contrasted horror to her idyl ten- 
der : 
Across the azure pavement of the 
sea 
She raised a cape for Bai'ae's marble 
splendor ; 
And westward, on the circling 

zone, 
To front the seas unknown, 
She planted Capri's couchant lion to 
defend her. 



i58 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



VII 

A mother kind, she doth but tantalize : 
Nor from her secret gardens will she 
spurn us. 
The Roman, casting hitherward his 
eyes, 
Forgot his Sybaris beside Vol- 
turnus — 
Forgot the streams and sylvan 

charms 
That decked his Sabine farms, 
And orchards on the slopes that sink 
to still Avernus. 

VIII 

Here was his substance wasted : here 
he lost 
The marrow that subdued the world, 
in leisure ; 
Counting no days that were not feasts, 
no cost 
Too dear to purchase finer forms of 
pleasure ; 
Yet, while for him stood still the 

sun, 
The restless world rolled on, 
And shook from off its skirts Caesar 
and Caesar's treasure. 

IX 

Less than he sought will we : a moon 
of peace, 
To feed the mind on Fancy's airy 
diet ; 
Soft airs that come like memories of 
Greece, 
Nights that renew the old Phoeni- 
cian quiet : 
Escape from yonder burning crest 
That stirs with new unrest, 
And in its lava-streams keeps hot the 
endless riot. 



Here, from the wars of Gaul, the strife 
of Rome, 
May we, meek citizens, a summer 
screen us : 
Here find with milder Earth a perfect 
home, 
Once, ere she puts profounder rest 
between us : 
Here break the sacred laurel bough 
Still for Apollo's brow, 
And bind the myrtle buds to crown 
a purer Venus. 

1868. 



IN MY VINEYARD 



At last the dream that clad the field 

Is fairest fact, and stable ; 
At last my vines a covert yield, 

A patch for song and fable. 
I thread the rustling ranks, that hide 

Their misty violet treasure, 
And part the sprays with more than 
pride, 

And more than owner's pleasure. 



The tender shoots, the fragrance fine, 

Betray the garden's poet, 
Whose daintiest life is turned to wine, 

Yet half is shy to show it, — 
The epicure, who yields to toil 

A scarce fulfilled reliance, 
But takes from sun and dew and soil 

A grace unguessed by science. 

in 

Faint odors, from the bunches blown, 

Surround me and subdue me ; 
The vineyard-breath of many a zone 

Is softly breathing through me : 
From slopes of Eshkol, in the sun, 

And many a hillside classic : 
From where Falernian juices run, 

And where they press the Massic ! 

IV 

Where airy terraces, on high, 

The hungry vats replenish, 
And, less from earth than from the 
sky, 

Distil the golden Rhenish : 
Where, light of heart, the Bordelais 

Compels his stony level 
To burst and foam in purple spray, — 

The rose that crowns the revel ! 



So here, as there, the subject earth 

Shall take a tenderer duty ; 
And Labor walk with harmless Mirth, 

And wed with loving Beauty : 
So here, a gracious life shall fix 

Its seat, in sunnier weather ; 
For sap and blood so sweetly mix, 

And richly run together ! 

VI 

The vine was exiled from the land 
That bore but needful burdens ; 



THE TWO GREETINGS 



r 59 



But now we slack the weary hand, 
And look for gentler guerdons : 

We take from Ease a grace above 
The strength we took from Labor, 

And win to laugh, and woo to love, 
Each grimly-earnest neighbor. 

VII 

What idle dreams ! Even as I muse, 

I feel a falling shadow ; 
And vapors blur and clouds confuse 

My coming Eldorado. 
Portentous, grim, a ghost draws nigh, 

To clip my flying fancy, 
And change the'shows of earth and sky 

With evil necromancy. 

VIII 

The leaves on every vine-branch curl 

As if a frost had stung them ; 
The bunches shrivel, snap, and whirl 

As if a tempest flung them ; 
And as the ghost his forehead shakes, 

Denying and commanding, 
But withered stalks and barren stakes 

Surround me where I 'm standing. 

IX 

"Beware!" the spectre cried, "the 
woe 

Of this delusive culture ! 
The nightingale that lures thee so 

Shall hatch a ravening vulture. 
To feed the vat, to fill the bin, 

Thou piuck'st the vineyard's foison, 
That drugs the cup of mirth with sin, 

The veins of health with poison ! " 



But now a golden mist was born, 

With violet odors mingled : 
I felt a brightness, as of morn, 

And all my pulses tingled ; 
And forms arose, — among them first 

The old Ionian lion, 
And they, Sicilian Muses nursed, — 

Theocritus and Bion. 



And he of Teos, he of Rome, 
The Sabine bard and urban ; 

And Saadi, from his Persian home, 
And Hafiz in his turban : 

And Shakespeare, silent, sweet, and 
grave, 
And Herri ck with his lawns on ; 



And Luther, mellow, burly, brave, 
Along with Rare Ben Jonson ! 

XII 

" Be comforted ! " they seemed to say ; 

' ' For Nature does no treasons : 
She neither gives nor takes away 

Without eternal reasons. 
She heaps the stores of corn and oil 

In such a liberal measure, 
That, past the utmost need of Toil, 

There 's something left for Pleasure. 

XIII 

' ' The secret soul of sun and dew 

Not vainly she distilleth, 
And from these globes of pink and 
blue 

A harmless cup she filleth : 
Who loveth her may take delight 

In what for him she dresses, 
Nor find in cheerful appetite 

The portal to excesses. 

XIV 

' ' Yes, ever since the race began 

To press the vineyard's juices, 
It was the brute within the man 

Defiled their nobler uses ; 
But they who take from order joy, 

And make denial duty, 
Provoke the brute they should destroy 

By Freedom and by Beauty ! " 



They spake ; and lo ! the baleful 
shape 

Grew dim, and then retreated ; 
And bending o'er the hoarded grape, 

The vines my vision greeted. 
The sunshine burst, the breezes turned 

The leaves till they were hoary, 
And over all the vineyard burned 

A fresher light of glory ! 

1869. 



THE TWO GREETINGS 

I. — Salve ! 

Scarce from the void of shadows 
taken, 

We hail thine opening eyelids, boy ! 
Be welcome to the world ! Awaken 

To strength and beauty, and to joy! 



i6o 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Within those orbs of empty wonder 
Let life its stany fires increase, 

And curve those tender lips asunder 
With faintest smiles of baby peace. 

Sealed in their buds, the beauteous 
senses 

Shall gladden thee as they unfold : 
With soft allurements, stern defences, 

Thy riper being they shall mould. 

Far-eyed desires and hopes unbounded 
Within thy narrow nest are furled : 

Behold, for thee how fair is rounded 
The circle of the sunlit world ! 

The oceans and the winds invite thee, 
The peopled lands thy coming wait : 

No wreck nor storm shall long affright 
thee, 
For all are parts of thine estate. 

Advance to every triumph wrested 
By plough and pencil, pen and 
sword, 
For, with thy robes of action vested, 
Though slaves be others, thou art 
lord! 

Thy breath be love; thy growth be 
duty, 

To end in peace as they began: 
Pre-human in thy helpless beauty, 

Become more beautiful, as Man ! 



II.— Vale ! 

Now fold thy rich experience round 
thee, 
To shield therewith the sinking 
heart : 
The sunset-gold of Day hath crowned 
thee : 
The dark gate opens, — so depart ! 

What growth the leafy years could 
render 
No more into its bud returns ; 
It clothes thee still with faded splendor 
As banks are clothed by autumn 
ferns. 

All spring could dream or summer 
fashion, 
If ripened, or untimely cast, 



The harvest of thy toil and passion — 
Thy sheaf of life — is bound at last. 

What scattered ears thy field encloses, 
What tares unweeded, now behold ; 

And here the poppies, there the roses, 
Send withered fragrance through 
the gold. 

Lo ! as thou earnest, so thou goest, 
From bright Unknown to bright 
Unknown, 
Save that the light thou forward 
throwest, 
Was fainter then behind thee 
thrown. 

Again be glad! through tears and 
laughter, 
And deed and failure, thou art 
strong : 
Thy Here presages thy Hereafter, 
And neither sphere shall do thee 
wrong ! 

To mother-breasts of nurture fonder 
Go, child ! — once more in beauty 
young : 

And hear our Vale / echoed yonder 
As Salve/ in a sweeter tongue J 



SHEKH AHNAF'S LETTER 
FROM BAGHDAD 

In Allah's name, the Ever Merciful, 
The Most Compassionate! To thee, 

my friend, 
Ben-Arif , peace and blessing ! May 

this scroll, 
A favored herald, tell thee in Tangier 
That Ahnaf follows soon, if Allah 

wills ! 
Yes, after that last day at Arafat 
Whereof I wrote thee, — after weary 

moons, 
Delayed among the treacherous Wa- 

habees, — 
The long, sweet rest beneath Der- 

reyeh's palms, 
That cooled my body for the burning 

bath 
Of naked valleys in the hither waste 
Beside Euphrates, — now behold me 

here 



SHEKH AHNAF'S LETTER FROM BAGHDAD 161 



In Baghdad! Here, and drinking 

from the well 
"Whose first pure waters fertilized the 

West! 

I, as thou knowest, with both my 

hands took hold 
Of Law and of Tradition, so to lift 
To knowledge and obedience my soul. 
Severe was I accounted — but my 

strength 
"Was likewise known of all men ; and 

I craved 
The sterner discipline which Islam first 
Endured, and knit the sinews of our 

race. 
What says the Law?— ""Who 

changes or perverts, 
Conceals, rejects, or holds of small 

account, 
Though it were but the slightest 

seeming word, 
Hath all concealed, perverted, slight- 
ed ! " This, 
Thou knowest, I held, and hold. 

Here, I hoped, 
The rigid test should gladden limbs 

prepared 
To bend, accept, and then triumphant 

rise. 
Even as the weak of faith rejoice to 

find 
Some lax interpretation, I rejoiced 
In foretaste of the sure severity. 
As near I drew, across the sandy 

fiats, 
Above the palms the yellow minaret 
"Wrote on the sky my welcome : 

' ' Ahnaf , hail ! 
Here, in the city of the Abbasid, 
Set thou thine evening by its morning 

star 
Of Faith, and bind the equal East 

and West ! " 

Ah me, Ben-Arif! how shall pen of 

mine 
Set forth the perturbation of the soul ? 
To doubt were death ; not hope, were 

much the same 
As not believe — but Allah tries my 

strength 
With tests far other than severest 

law. 
When I had bathed, and then had 

cleansed with prayer 



My worn and dusty soul, (so, doubly 

pure, 
Pronounced the fathah as 'tis heard 

in Heaven), 
I sought the court-yard of Alman- 

sour's mosque, 
Where, after asser, creeping shadows 

cool 
The marble, and the shekhs in com- 
merce grave 
Keep fresh the ancient wisdom. Me 

they gave 
Reception kindly, though perchance 

I felt — 
Or fancied, only — lack of special 

warmth 
For vows accomplished and my pil- 
grim zeal. 
"Where is Tangier?" said one; 

whereat the rest 
With most indifferent knowledge did 

discuss 
The problem — none, had they but 

questioned me ! — 
Then snatched again the theme they 

half let drop, 
And in their heat forgot me. 

I, abashed, 

Sat listening : vainly did I prick mine 
ears. 

I knew the words, indeed, but missed 
therein 

The wonted sense: they stripped our 
Holy Book 

Of every verse which not contains the 
Law, — 

Spake Justice and Forgiveness, Peace 
and Love, 

Nor once the duties of the right hand 
fixed, 

Nor service of the left : the nature they 

Of Allah glorified, and not His names : 

Of customs and observances no word 

Their lips let fall : and I distinguished 
not, 

Save by their turbans, that they other 
were 

Than Jews, or Christians, or the Pa- 
gans damned. 

Methought I dreamed ; and in my 
mind withdrawn 

At last heard only the commingling 
clash 

Of voices near me, and the songs out- 
side 



162 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Of boatmen on the Tigris. Then a 

hand 
Came on my shoulder, and the oldest 

shekh, 
White-bearded Hatem, spake: "O 

Ahnaf! thou 
Art here a stranger, and it scarce 

beseems 
That we should speak of weighty 

matters thus 
To uninstructed ears — the less, to 

thine, 
Which, filled so long with idle sand, 

require 
The fresh delight of sympathetic 

speech 
That cools like yonder fountain, and 

makes glad. 
Nor wouldst thou hear, perchance, 

nor could we give 
An easy phrase as key to what so long 
Hath here been forged : but come 

to-night with me 
Where this shall be applied, and more, 

to bring 
Islam a better triumph than the sword 
Of Ali gave ; for that but slew the foe, 
This maketh him a friend." 

I, glad at heart 

To know my hope not false, yet won- 
dering much, 

Gave eager promise, and at nightfall 
went 

With Hatem to the college of a sect 

We know not in the West — nor is 
there need : 

An ancient hall beneath a vaulted 
dome, 

With hanging lamps well lit, and 
cushioned seats 

Where sat a grave and motley multi- 
tude. 

When they beheld my guide, they all 
arose, 

And "Peace be with thee, Hatem!" 
greeting, cried. 

He, whispering to me : " O Ahnaf, sit 

And hear, be patient, wonder if thou 
wilt, 

But keep thy questions sagely to the 
end, 

When I shall seek thee " — to a dais 
passed, 

And sat him down. And all were 
silent there 



In decent order, or in whispers spoke ; 
But great my marvel was when I be- 
held 
Parsee and Jew and Christian — yea, 

the race 
Of Boodh and Brahma — with the 

Faithful mixed 
As if 't were no defilement ! Lo ! they 

rose 
Again, with equal honor to salute 
The Rabbi Daood, Jewest of the 

Jews, — 
And even so, for an Armenian priest ! 
Yet both some elder prophets share 

with us, 
And it might pass : but twice again 

they rose, — 
Once for a Parsee, tinged like smoky 

milk, 
His hat a leaning tower, — and once, 

a dark, 
Grave man, with turban thinner than 

a wheel, 
A wafer on his forehead (Satan's 

sign !) — 
A worshipper of Ganges and the cow ! 
These made my knees to smite : yet 

Hatem stood 
And gave his hand, and they beside 

him sat. 

Then one by one made speech ; and 
what the first, 

The shrill-tongued Rabbi, claimed as 
rule for all, 

That they accepted. "Forasmuch," 
(said he) 

"As either of our sects hath special 
lore 

Which not concerns the others — spe- 
cial signs 

And marvels which the others must 
reject, 

However holy and attested deemed, 

Set we all such aside, and hold our 
minds 

Alone to that which in our creeds 
hath power 

To move, enlighten, strengthen, pu- 
rify, — 

The God behind the veil of miracles ! 

So speak we to the common brain of 
each 

And to the common heart ; for what 
of Truth 

Grows one with life, is manifest to all, 



SHEKH AHNAFS LETTER FROM BAGHDAD 163 



Or Jew, or Moslem, or whatever name, 
And none deny it : test we then how 

much 
This creed or that hath power to shape 

true lives." 
All there these words applauded : 

Hatem most, 
Who spake: "My acquiescence lies 

therein, 
That on thy truth, O Jew ! I build the 

claim 
Of him, our Prophet, to authority." 
Then some one near me, jeering, said : 

"Well done! 
He gives up Gabriel and the Beast 

Borak ! " 
1 ' Yea, but " — another answered — 

"must the Jew 
Not also lose his Pharaohs and his 

plagues, 
His rams' -horns and his Joshua and 

the sun ? " 
"For once the Christians," whispered 

back a Jew, 
' ' Must cease to turn their water into 

wine, 
Or feed the multitude with five small 

loaves 
And two small fishes." Thus the peo- 
ple talked ; 
While I, as one that in a dream 

appears 
To eat the flesh of swine, and cannot 

help 
The loathsome dream, awaited what 

should come. 

To me it seemed — and doubtless to 

the rest, 
Though heretics and pagans — as the 

chiefs 
Who there disputed were both maimed 

and bound, 
So little dared they offer, shorn and 

lopped 
Of all their vigor, false as well as true. 
Was it of Islam that Shekh Hatem 

spake, 
With ringing tongue and fiery words 

that forced 
Unwilling tears from Pagan and from 

Jew, 
And cries of "Allah Akhbar I " from 

his own ? 
Forsooth, I know not : he was Islam's 

chief. 



How dared he nod his head and smile, 

to hear 
The Jew declare his faith in God the 

Lord, 
The Christian preach of love and sacri- 
fice, 
The Parsee and the Hindoo recognize 
The gifts of charity and temperance, 
And peace and purity ? If this be so, 
And heretic and pagan crowd with us 
The gates of Allah's perfect Paradise, 
Why hath He sent His Prophet? 

Nay, — I write 
In anger, not in doubt : nor need I here 
To thee, Ben-Arif, faithful man and 

wise, 
Portray the features of my shame and 
grief. 

Ere all had fully spoken, I, con- 
fused, — 
Hearing no word of washing or of 

prayer. 
Of cross, or ark, or fire, or symbol else 
Idolatrous, obscene, — could only 

guess 
What creed was glorified before the 

crowd, 
By garb and accent of the chief who 

spake : 
And scarcely then ; for oft, as one set 

forth 
His holiest duties, all, as with one 

voice, 
Exclaimed : ' ' But also these are 

mine ! " The strife 
Was then, how potent were they, how 

observed, — 
Made manifest in life ? One cannot 

say 
That such are needless, but their sa- 
cred stamp 
Comes from observance of all forms 

of law, 
Which here — the strength of Islam 

— was suppressed. 
Their wrangling — scarcely could it 

so be called ! — 
Was o'er the husks: the kernel of the 

creed 
They first picked out, and flung it to 

the winds. 

I, pierced on every side with sorest 

stings, 
Waited uneasily the end delayed, 



164 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



When Hatem spake once more : his 

eye was bright, 
And the long heard that o'er his girdle 

rolled 
Shook as in storm. "Now, God be 

praised ! " he cried : 
" God ever merciful, compassionate, 
Hath many children ; these have many 

tongues : 
But of one blood are they, one truth 

they seek, 
One law of Love and Justice fits them 

all. 
And they have many Prophets : may 

it be, 
Though not of like commission, in so 

far 
As they declare His truth, they speak 

for Him ! 
Go past their histories: accept their 

souls, 
And whatsoe'er of perfect and of pure 
Is breathed from each, in each and all 

the same, 
Confirms the others' office and its own ! 
Here is the centre of the moving 

wheel, — 
The point of rest, wheref rom the sepa- 
rate creeds 
Build out their spokes, that seem to 

chase and flee, 
Revolving in the marches of His Day ! 
If one be weak, destroy it : if it bear 
Unstrained His glory of Eternal Truth, 
And firmer fibre from the ages gain, 
Behold, at last it shall replace the 

rest! 
Even as He wills ! The bright solution 

grows 



Nearer and clearer with the whirling 

years : 
Till finally the use of outward signs 
Shall be outworn, the crumbling walls 

thrown down, 
And one Religion shall make glad the 

world!" 

More I could not endure : I did not 
wait 

For Hatem's coming, as he promised 
me ; 

Yet — ere amid the crowds I could 
escape — 

I saw the Rabbi and the Christian 
priest 

Fall on his neck with weeping. With 
a groan, 

A horrid sense of smothering in my 
throat, 

And words I will not write, I gained 
the air, 

And saw, O Prophet ! how thy Cres- 
cent shone 

Above the feathery palm-tops, and the 
dome 

Of Haroun's tomb upon the Tigris' 
bank. 

And this is Baghdad! — Eblis, rather 
say! — 

O fallen city of the Abbasid, 

Where Islam is defiled, and by its sons ! 

Prepare, Ben-Arif, to receive thy 
friend, 

Who with the coming moon shall west- 
ward turn 

To keep his faith undarkened in Tan- 
gier! 



NAPOLEON AT GOTHA 



We walk amid the currents of actions left undone, 
The germs of deeds that wither, before they see the sun. 
For every sentence uttered, a million more are dumb : 
Men's lives are chains of chances, and History their sum. 



Not he, the Syracusan, but each impurpled lord 
Must eat his banquet under the hair-suspended sword ; 
And one swift breath of silence may fix or change the fate 
Of him whoiie force is building the fabric of a state. 



NAPOLEON AT GOTHA 165 



Where o'er the "windy uplands the slated turrets shine, 
Duke August ruled at Gotha. in Castle Friedenstein, — 
A handsome prince and courtly, of light and shallow heart 
No better than he should be, but with a taste for Art. 

IV 

The fight was fought at Jena, eclipsed was Prussia's sun, 
And by the French invaders the land was overrun ; 
But while the German people were silent in despair, 
Duke August painted pictures, and curled his yellow hair. 



Now. when at Erfurt gathered the ruling royal clan, 
Themselves the humble subjects, their lord the Corsican, 
Each bade to ball and banquet the sparer of his line : 
Duke August with the others, to Castle Friedenstein. 

VI 

Then were the larders rummaged, the forest-stags were slain, 
The tuns of oldest vintage showered out their golden rain ; 
The towers were bright with banners, — but all the people said : 
We, slaves, must feed our master, — would God that he were dead ! 



They drilled the ducal guardsmen, men young and straight and tall, 
To form a double column, from gate to castle-wall ; 
And as there were but fifty, the first must wheel away, 
Fall in beyond the others, and lengthen the array. 



" Parbleu ! " Napoleon muttered : " Your Highness' guards I prize, 
So young and strong and handsome, and all of equal size." 

"You, Sire," replied Duke August, "may have as fine, if you 
Will twice or thrice repeat them, as I am forced to do ! " 

IX 

Now, in the Castle household, of all the folk, was one 
Whose heart was hot within him, the Ducal Huntsman's son : 
A proud and bright-eyed stripling ; scarce fifteen years he had, 
But free of hall and chamber : Duke August loved the lad. 

x 

He saw the forceful homage : he heard the shouts that came 
From base throats, or unwilling, but equally of shame : 
He thought : " One man has done it, — one life would free the land, 
But all are slaves and cowards, and none will lift a hand ! 

XI 

" My grandsire hugged a bear to death, when broke his hunting-spear, 
And has this little Frenchman a muzzle I should fear ? 
If kings are cowed, and princes, and all the land is scared, 
Perhaps a boy can show them the thing they might have dared ! " 



166 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

XII 

Napoleon on the morrow was coming once again, 
(And all the castle knew it) without his courtly train ; 
And, when the stairs were mounted, there was no other road 
But one long, lonely passage, to where the Duke abode. 

xin 

None guessed the secret purpose the silent stripling kept : 
Deep in the night he waited, and, when his father slept, 
Took from the rack of weapons a musket old and tried, 
And cleaned the lock and barrel, and laid it at his side. 

xrv 

He held it fast in slumber, he lifted it in dreams 
Of sunlit mountain-forests and stainless mountain- streams ; 
And in the morn he loaded — the load was bullets three: 
"For Deutschland — for Duke August — and now the third for me! " 

xv 

" What! ever wilt be hunting ? " the stately Marshal cried ; 

"I'll fetch a stag of twenty ! " the pale-faced boy replied, 
As, clad in forest color, he sauntered through the court, 
And said, when none could hear him : ' ' Now, may the time be short ! 

XVI 

The corridor was vacant, the windows full of sun ; 

He stole within the midmost, and primed afresh his gun ; 

Then stood, with all his senses alert in ear and eye 

To catch the lightest signal that showed the Emperor nigh. 

XVII 

A sound of wheels : a silence : the muffled sudden jar 
Of guards their arms presenting : a footstep mounting far, 
Then nearer, briskly nearer, — a footstep, and alone! 
And at the farther portal appeared Napoleon ! 



Alone, his hands behind him, his firm and massive head 
With brooded plans uplifted, he came with measured tread: 
And yet, those feet had shaken the nations from their poise, 
And yet, that will to shake them depended on the boy's ! 



With finger on the trigger, the gun held hunter-wise, 
His rapid heart-beats sending the blood to brain and eyes, 
The boy stood, firm and deadly, — another moment's space, 
And then the Emperor saw him, and halted, face to face. 



A mouth as cut in marble, an eye that pierced and stung 
As might a god's, all-seeing, the soul of one so young : 
A look that read his secret, that lamed his callow will, 
That inly smiled, and dared him his purpose to fulfil ! 



THE ACCOLADE 



167 



XXI 



As one a serpent trances, the boy, forgetting all, 

Felt but that face, nor noted the harmless musket's fall; 

Nor breathed, nor thought, nor trembled ; but, pale and cold as stone, 

Saw pass, nor look behind him, the calm Napoleon. 



XXII 



And these two kept their secret ; but from that day began 
The sense of fate and duty that made the boy a man ; 
And long he lived to tell it, — and, better, lived to say : 
God's purposes were grander : He thrust me from His way ! 



THE ACCOLADE 



Under the lamp in the tavern yard 
The beggars and thieves were 
met ; 
Ruins of lives that were evil-starred, 
Battered bodies and faces hard, 
A loveless and lawless set. 

11 

The cans were full, if the scrip was 
lean ; 
A fiddler played to the crowd 
The high-pitched lilt of a tune obscene, 
When there entered the gate, in gar- 
ments mean, 
A stranger tall and proud. 



There was danger in their doubting 
eyes ; 
" Now who are you ? " they said. 
"One who has been more wild than 

wise, 
Who has played with force and fed on 
lies, 
As you on your mouldy bread. 



"The false have come to me, high 
and low, 
Where I only sought the true : 
I am sick of sham and sated with 

show ; 
The honest evil I fain would know, 
In the license here with you." 



" He shall go ! " "He shall stay ! " In 
hot debate 
Their whims and humors ran, 



When Jack o' the Strong Arm square 

and straight 
Stood up, like a man whose word is 

fate, 
A reckless and resolute man. 

VI 

" Why brawl," said he, "at so slight 
a thing ? 
Are fifty afraid of one ? 
We have taken a stranger into our ring 
Ere this, and made him in sport our 
king ; 
So let it to-night be done ! 

VII 

" Fetch him a crown of tinsel bright, 

For sceptre a tough oak-staff ; 
And who most serves to the King's 

delight, 
The King shall dub him his own true 
knight, 
And I swear the King shall 
laugh!" 

VTII 

They brought him a monstrous tinsel 
crown, 
They put the staff in his hand ; 
There was wrestling and racing up 

and down, 
There was song of singer and jest of 
clown, 
There was strength and sleight-of- 
hand. 

IX 

The King, he pledged them with clink 

of can, 
He laughed with a royal glee ; 
There was dull mistrust when the 

sports began, 



i68 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



There was roaring mirth when the 
rearmost man 
Gave out, and the ring was free. 



For Jack o' the Strong Arm strove 
with a will, 
With the wit and the strength of 
four; 
There was never a part he dared not fill, 
Wrestler, and singer, and clown, until 
The motley struggle was o'er. 



And ever he turned from the deft sur- 
prise, 
And ever from strain or thrust, 
With a dumb appeal in his laughing 

guise, 
And gazed on the King with wistful 
eyes, 
Panting, and rough with dust. 

XII 

"Kneel, Jack o' the Strong Arm! 
Our delight 
Hath most been due to thee," 
Said the King, and stretched his rapier 

bright : 
"Rise, Sir John Armstrong, our true 
knight, 
Bold, fortunate, and free ! " 



Jack o' the Strong Arm knelt and 
bowed, 
To meet the christening blade ; 
He heard the shouts of the careless 

crowd, 
And murmured something, as though 
he vowed, 
When he felt the accolade. 



He kissed the King's hand tenderly, 
Full slowly then did rise, 

And within him a passion seemed to be; 

For his choking throat they all could 
see, 
And the strange tears in his eyes. 

xv 

From his massive breast the rags he 
threw, 
He threw them from body and 
limb, 



Till, bare as a new-born babe to view, 
He faced them, no longer the man 
they knew : 
They silently stared at him. 



" O King ! " he said, "thou wert King, 
I knew ; 
I am verily knight, O King ! 
What thou hast done thou canst not 

undo; 
Thou hast come to the false and found 
the true 
In the carelessly ventured thing. 

XVII 

"As I cast away these rags I have 
worn, 
The life that was in them I cast ; 
Take me, naked and newly born, 
Test me with power and pride and 
scorn, 
I shall be true to the last ! " 

XVIII 

His large, clear eyes were weak as he 
spoke, 
But his mouth was firm and 
strong ; 
And a cry from the thieves and beg- 
gars broke, 
As the King took off his own wide 
cloak 
And covered him from the throng. 
• 

xrx 

He gave him his royal hand in their 
sight, 
And he said, before the ring : 
"Come with me, Sir John! Be leal 

and right ; 
If I have made thee all of a knight, 
Thou hast made me more of a 
king ! " 

1871. 



ERIC AND AXEL 



Though they never divided my meat 

or wine, 
Yet Eric and Axel are friends of mine ; 
Never shared my sorrow, nor laughed 

with my glee, 
Yet Eric and Axel are dear to me ; 



ERIC AND AXEL 



169 



And faithf uller comrades no man ever 

knew 
Than Eric and Axel, the fearless, the 

true! 



When I hit the target, they feel no 

pride; 
When I spin with the waltzers, they 

wait outside ; 
When the holly of Yule-tide hangs in 

the hall, 
And kisses are freest, they care not at 

all; 
When I sing, they are silent ; I speak, 

they obey, 
Eric and Axel, mj hope and my stay ! 

in 
They wait for my coming ; they know 

I shall come, 
When the dancers are faint and the 

fiddlers numb, 
With a shout of ' ' Ho, Eric ! " and 

' ' Axel, ho ! " 
As we skim the wastes of the Norrland 

snow, 
And their frozen breath to a silvery 

gray 
Turns Eric's raven and Axel's bay. 



By the bondehus and the herregoard, 

O'er the glassy pavement of frith and 
fiord, 

Through the tall fir- woods, that like 
steel are drawn 

On the broadening red of the rising 
dawn, 

Till one low roof, where the hills un- 
fold, 

Shelters us all from the angry cold. 



I tell them the secret none else shall 

hear; 
I love her, Eric, I love my dear ! 



I love her, Axel ; wilt love her, 

too, 
Though her eyes are dark and mine 

are blue ? 
She has eyes like yours, so dark and 

clear : 
Eric and Axel will love my dear ! 



They would speak if they could ; but 

I think they know 
Where, when the moon is thin, they 

shall go, 
To wait awhile in the sleeping street, 
To hasten away upon snow -shod 

feet, — 
Away and away, ere the morning 

star 
Touches the tops of the spires of Cal- 

mar ! 



Per, the merchant, may lay at her 

feet 
His Malaga wine and his raisins sweet, 
Brought in his ships from Portugal 

land, 
And I am as bare as the palm of my 

hand ; 
But she sighs for me, and she sighs for 

you, 
Eric and Axel, my comrades true 1 

VIII 

You care not, Eric, for gold and 

wine; 
You care not, Axel, for show and 

shine ; 
But you care for the touch of the hand 

that 's dear, 
And the voice that fondles you through 

the ear, 
And you shall save us, through storm 

and snow, 
When she calls: "Ho, Eric!" and 

"Axel, ho!" 
1871. 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



EDITOR'S NOTE 

Although " The Picture of St. John" was published in 1866, the concep- 
tion of the poem dates from a much earlier period. The writing of it was 
begun in 1850 ; four years later, however, it had advanced but very little. 
Then it rested altogether, until in 1863 it presented itself once more, and in a 
matured shape, to the poet's mind. During the latter year and the two fol- 
lowing work on it continued more or less steadily, and when in the late sum- 
mer of 1865 the last stanza was penned, the author turned again to the begin- 
ning, and re-wrote that part of the poem which owed its origin to the earliest 
time. 

In 1880, when, after the poet's death, "The Picture of St. John" was 
included in the Household Edition, a number of stanzas here and there (forty- 
seven of them in all) were omitted for the first time. This was done in ac- 
cordance with the author's intention, as marked by himself in his own copy 
of the published poem. 



INTKODUCTOKY NOTE 

In regard to the subject of this poem I have nothing to say. It grew nat- 
urally out of certain developments in - my own mind ; and the story, unsug- 
gested by any legend or detached incident whatever, shaped itself to suit the 
theme. The work of time, written only as its own necessity prompted, and 
finished with the care and conscience which such a venture demands, I sur- 
render it to the judgment of the reader. 

The form of the stanza which I have adopted, however, requires a word 
of explanation. I have endeavored to strike a middle course between the 
almost inevitable monotony of an unvarying stanza, in a poem of this length, 
and the loose character which the heroic measure assumes when arbitrarily 
.rhymed, without the check of regularly recurring divisions. It seemed to me 
that this object might be best accomplished by adhering rigidly to the mea- 
sure and limit of the stanza, yet allowing myself freedom of rhyme within 
that limit. The ottava rima is undoubtedly better adapted for the purposes 
of a romantic epic than either the Spenserian stanza or the heroic couplet ; 
but it needs the element of humor (as in Byron's "Don Juan") to relieve its 
uniform sweetness. On- the other hand, the proper compactness and strength 
of rhythm can with difficulty be preserved in a poem where all form of stanza 
is discarded. My aim has been, as far as possible, to combine the advantages 
and lessen the objections of both. 

I know of but one instance in which the experiment has been even partially 
tried, — the "Oberon" of Wieland, wherein the rhymes are wilfully varied, 
and sometimes the measure, the stanza almost invariably closing with an 
Alexandrine. In the present case, I have been unable to detect any prohibi- 
tory rule in the genius of our language ; and the only doubt which suggested 
itself to my mind was that the ear, becoming swiftly accustomed to the ar- 
rangement of rhyme in one stanza, might expect to find it reproduced in the 
next. I believe, however, that such disappointment, if it should now and 
then occur, will be very transitory, — that even an unusually delicate ear will 
soon adjust itself to the changing order, and find that the varied harmony at 
which I have aimed (imperfectly as I may have succeeded) compensates for 
the lack of regularity. At times, I confess, the temptation to close with an 
Alexandrine was very great ; but it was necessary to balance the one apparent 
license by a rigid adherence to the customary form in all other respects. 
Hence, also, I have endeavored, as frequently as possible, to use but three 
rhymes in a stanza, in order to strengthen my experiment with an increased 
effect of melody. I have found, since the completion of the poem, that it 
contains more than seventy variations in the order of rhyme, not all of which, 
of course, can be pronounced equally agreeable : nor does this freedom in- 
volve less labor than a single form of stanza, because the variations must 
be so arranged as to relieve and support each other. My object has been, not 
to escape the laws which Poetry imposes, but to select a form which gives 
greater appearance of unrestrained movement, and more readily reflects the 
varying moods of the poem. 



PROEM 
TO THE ARTISTS 



Because no other dream my childhood knew 
Than your bright Goddess sends, — that earliest 
Her face I saw, and from her bounteous breast, 
All others dry, the earliest nurture drew ; 
And since the hope, so lovely, was not true, 
To write my life in colors, — win a place 
Among your ranks, though humble, yet with grace 
That might accord me brotherhood with you : 



Because the dream, thus cherished, gave my life 
Its first faint sense of beauty, and became. 
Even when the growing years to other strife 
Led forth my feet, a shy, secluded flame : 
And ye received me, when our pathways met, 
As one long parted, but of kindred fate ; 
And in one heaven our kindred stars are set ; 
To you, my Brethren, this be dedicate ! 

in 
And though some sportive nymph the channel turned, 
And led to other fields mine infant rill, 
The sense of fancied destination still 
Leaps in its waves, and will not be unlearned. 
I charge not Fate with having done me wrong ; 
Much hath she granted, though so much was spurned 
But leave the keys of Color, silent long, 
And pour my being through the stops of Song ! 

IV 

Even as one breath the organ-pipe compels 

To yield that note which through the minster swells 

In chorded thunder, and the hollow lyre 

Beneath its gentler touches to awake 

The airy monotones that fan desire, 

And thrills the fife with blood of battle, — so 

Our natures from one source their music take, 

And side by side to one far Beauty flow ! 



And I have measured, in fraternal pride, 
Your reverence, your faith, your patient power 
Of stern self-abnegation ; and have tried 
The range between your brightest, darkest hour, 



178 THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 

The path of chill neglect, and that so fair 
With praise upspringing like a wind-sown flower : 
But, whether thorns or amaranths ye wear, 
Your speech is mine, your sacrifice, your prayer ! 

Permit me, therefore, ye who nearest stand, 
Among the worthiest, and kindliest known 
In contact of our lives, to take the hand 
Whose grasp assures me I am not alone ; 
For thus companioned, I shall find the tone 
Of flowing song, and all my breath command. 
Your names I veil from those who should not see, 
Not from yourselves, my Friends, and not from me ! 

VII 

You, underneath whose brush the autumn day 
Draws near the sunset which it never finds, — 
Whose art the smoke of Indian Summer binds 
Beyond the west-wind's power to breathe away : 
Who fix the breakers in their gifted grace 
And stretch the sea-horizon, dim and gray, 
I '11 call you Opal, — so your tints enchase 
The pearly atmospheres wherein they play. 

vm 

And you, who love the brown October field, 

The lingering leaves that flutter as they cling, 

And each forlorn but ever-lovely thing, — 

To whom elegiac Autumn hath revealed 

Her sweetest dirges, Bloodstone : for the hue 

Of sombre meadows to your palette cleaves, 

And lowering skies, with sunlight breaking through, 

And flecks of crimson on the scattered leaves ! 

IX 

You, Topaz, clasp the full-blown opulence 
Of Summer : many a misty mountain-range 
Or smoky valley, specked with warrior-tents, 
Basks on your canvas : then, with grander change, 
We climb to where your mountain twilight gleams 
In spectral pomp, or nurse the easeful sense 
Which through your Golden Day forever dreams 
By lakes and sunny hills, and falling streams. 

x 

You banish color from your cheerful cell, 

O Paros ! but a stern imperial form 

Stands in the marble moonlight where you dwell, 

A Poet's head, with grand Ionian beard, 

And Phidian dreams, that shine against the storm 

Of toilful life, the white robe o'er them cast 

Of breathless Beauty : yours the art, endeared 

To men and gods, first born, enduring last. 



PROEM 179 



XI 

You, too, whom how to name I may not guess, 

Except the jacinth and the ruby, blent, 

The native warmth of life might represent, 

Which, drawn from barns and homesteads, you express, 

Or vintage revels, round the maple-tree ; 

Or when the dusky race you quaintly dress 

In art that gives them finer liberty, — 

Made by your pencil, ere by battle, free ! 

XII 

Where'er my feet have strayed, whatever shore 

I visit, there your venturous footprints cling. 

From Chimborazo unto Labrador 

One sweeps the Continent with eagle wing, 

To dip his brush in tropic noon, or fires 

Of Arctic night ; one sets his seal upon 

Far Colorado's cleft, colossal spires, 

And lone, snow-kindled cones of Oregon! 

XIII 

Another through the mystic moonlight floats 
That silvers Venice ; and another sees 
The blazoned galleys and the gilded boats 
Bring home her Doges : Andalusian leas, 
Gray olive-slopes, and mountains sun-embrowned 
Entice another, and from ruder ground 
Of old Westphalian homes another brings 
Enchanted memories of the meanest things. 



To each and all, the hand of fellowship ! 
A poet's homage (should that title fall 
From other lips than mine) to each and all ! 
For, whether this pale star of Song shall dip 
To swift forgetfulness, or burn beside 
Accepted lamps of Art's high festival, 
Its flame was kindled at our shrines allied, 
In double faith, and from a twofold call ! 
August 30, 1865. 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



BOOK I 



THE ARTIST 



Complete the altar stands : my task 

is done. 
Awhile from sacred toil and silent 

prayer 
I rest, and never shone the vale so fair 
As now, beneath the mellow autumn 

sun, 
And overbreathed by tinted autumn 

air! 
In drowsy murmurs slide the mountain 

rills, 
And, save of light, the whole wide 

heaven is bare 
Above the happy slumber of the hills. 

ii 

Here, as a traveller whose feet have 
clomb 

A weary mountain-slope, may choose 
his seat, 

And resting, track the ways that he 
hath come, — 

The broken landscapes, level far be- 
low, 

The turf that kissed, the flints that tore 
his feet, 

And each dim speck that once was 
bliss or woe, — 

I breathe a space, between two sun- 
dered lives, 

And view what now is ended, what 
survives. 

in 
Such as I am, I am : in soul and sense 
Distinct, existing in my separate right, 
And though a Power, beyond my 

clouded sight, 
Spun from a thousand gathered fila- 
ments 



My cord of life, within its inmost 
core 

That life is mine : its torture, its de- 
light, 

Repeat not those that ever were be- 
fore 

Or ever shall be : mine are Day and 
Night. 



God gives to most an order which sup- 
plies 

Their passive substance, and they 
move therein. 

To some He grants the beating wings 
that rise 

In endless aspiration, till they win 

An awful vision of a deeper sin 

And loftier virtue, other earth and 
skies : 

And those their common help from 
each may draw, 

But these must perish, save they find 
the law. 



Vain to evade and useless to bewail 
My fortune ! One among the scattered 

few 
Am I : by sharper lightning, sweeter 

dew 
Refreshed or blasted, — on a wilder 

gale 
Caught up and whirled aloft, till, 

hither borne, 
My story pauses. Ere I drop the 

veil 
Once let me take the Past in calm re- 
view, 
Then eastward turn, and front the 

riper morn. 



l82 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



What sire begat me, and what mother 

nursed. 
What hills the blue frontiers of Earth 

I thought, 
Or how my young ambition scaled 

them first, 
It matters not : but I was finely wrought 
Beyond their elements from whom I 

came. 
A nimbler life informed mine infant 

frame : 
The gauzy wings some Psyche-fancy 

taught 
To flutter, soulless custom could not 

tame. 

VII 

Our state was humble, — yet above 

the dust, 
If deep below the stars, — the state 

that feeds 
Impatience, hinting yet denying needs, 
And thus, on one side ever forward 

thrust 
And on the other cruelly repressed, 
My nature grew, — a wild-flower in 

the weeds, — 
And hurt by ignorant love, that fain 

had blessed, 
I sought some other bliss wherein to 

rest. 

VIII 

And, wandering forth, a child that 

could not know 
The thing for which he pined, in som- 
bre woods 
And echo-haunted mountain-solitudes 
I learned a rapture from the blended 

show 
Of form and color, felt the soul that 

broods 
In lonely scenes, the moods that come 

and go 
O'er wayward Nature, making her 

the haunt 
Of Art's forerunner, Love's eternal 

want. 

IX 

Long ere the growing instinct reached 

my hand, 
It filled my brain: a pang of joy was 

born, 
When, soft as dew, across the dewy land 



Of Summer, leaned the crystal-hearted 
Morn ; 

And when the lessening day shone 
yellow-cold 

On fallow glebe and stubble, I would 
stand 

And feel a dumb despair its wings un- 
fold, 

And wring my hands, and weep as one 
forlorn. 



At first in play, but soon with heat and 

stir 
Of joy that hails discovered power, I 

tried 
To mimic form, and taught mine eye 

to guide 
The unskilled fingers. Praise became 

a spur 
To overtake success, for in that vale 
The simple people's wonder did not 

fail, 
Nor vulgarprophecies,whichyet confer 
The first delicious thrills of faith and 

pride. 



So, as on shining pinions lifted o'er 
The perilous bridge of boyhood, I ad- 
vanced. 
In warmer air the misty Maenads 

danced, 
And Sirens sang on many a rising 

shore, 
And Glory's handmaids beckoned me 

to choose 
The freshest of the unworn wreaths 

they bore ; 
So gracious Fortune showed, so fair 

the hues 
Wherewith she paints her cloud-built 

avenues ! 

XII 

Ere up through all this airy ecstasy 
The clamorous pulses of the senses 

beat, 
And half the twofold man, maturing 

first, 
Usurped its share of life, and bade me 

see 
The ways of pleasure opening for my 

feet, 
I stood alone : the tender breast that 

nursed. 



The loins from whence I sprang 

were cold, 
And mine the humble roof, the scanty 

gold. 



The pale, cold azure of my mountain 

sky 
Became a darkness : Arber's head un- 
shorn 
Xo temple crowned, — not here could 

fame be born ; 
And, nor with gold nor knowledge 

weighted,"! 
Set forth, and o'er the green Bavarian 

land, 
A happy wanderer, fared: the hour 

was nigh 
"When, in the home of Art, my feet 

should stand 
"Where Time and Power have kissed 

the Painter's hand ! 

XIV 

Oh, sweet it was, when, from that 
bleak abode 

Where avalanches grind the pines to 
dust, 

And crouching glaciers down the hol- 
lows thrust 

Their glittering claws, I took the sun- 
ward road, 

Making my guide the torrent, that 
before 

My steps ran shouting, giddy with its 

joy. 

And tossed its white hands like a 

gamesome boy, 
And sprayed its rainbow frolics o'er 

and o'er! 



Full-orbed, in rosy dusk, the perfect 

moon 
That evening shone: the torrent's 

noise, afar, 
Xo longer menaced, but with mellow 

tune 
Sang to the twinkle of a silver star, 
Above the opening valley. ' ' Italy ! " 
The moon, the star, the torrent, said 

to me, — 
"Sleep thou in peace, the morning 

will unbar 
These Alpine eates, and give thy 

world to thee ! " 



THE ARTIST 

alike 



183 



And morning did unfold the jutting 
capes 

Of chestnut-wooded hills, that held 
embayed 

Warm coves of fruit, the pine's JSo- 
lian shade, 

Or pillared bowers, blue with sus- 
pended grapes ; — 

A land whose forms some livelier 
grace betraj^ed ; 

Where motion sang and cheerful color 
laughed, 

And only gloomed, amid the dancing 
shapes 

Of vine and bough, the pointed cy- 
press-shaft ! 

xvn 

On, — on, through broadening vale 

and brightening sun 
I walked, and hoary in their old repose 
The olives twinkled: many a terrace 

rose, 
With marbles crowned and jasmine 

overrun, 
And orchards where the ivory silk- 
worm spun. 
On leafy palms outspread, its pulpy 

fruit 
The fig-tree held ; and last, the charm 

to close, 
A dark-eyed shepherd piped a reedy 

flute. 

XVIII 

My heart beat loud : I walked as in a 

dream 
Where simplest actions, touched with 

marvel, seem 
Enchanted yet familiar: for I knew 
The orchards, terraces, and breathing 

flowers, 
The tree from Adam's garden, and 

the blue 
Sweet sky behind the light aerial 

towers ; 
And that young faun that piped, had 

piped before, — 
I knew my home : the exile now was 

o'er ! 

XIX 

And when the third rich day declined 

his lids, 
I floated where the emerald waters fold 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



Gem-gardens, fairy island-pyramids, 
Whereon the orange hangs his globes 

of gold, — 
Which aloes crown with white, colos- 
sal plume, 
Above the beds where lavish Nature 

bids 
Her sylphs of odor endless revel hold, 
Her zones of flowers in balmy con- 
gress bloom ! 

xx 

I hailed them all, and hailed beyond, 
the plain ; 

The palace-fronts, on distant hills up- 
lift, 

White as the morning-star; the 
streams that drift 

In sandy channels to the Adrian main : 

Till one still eve, with duplicated stain 

Of crimson sky and wave, disclosed 
to me 

The domes of Venice, anchored on the 
sea, 

Far-off, — an airy city of the brain ! 



Forth from the shores of Earth we 

seemed to float, 
Drawn by that vision, — hardly felt 

the breeze 
That left one glassy ripple from the 

boat 
To break the smoothness of the silken 

seas ; 
And far and near, as from the lucent 

air, 
Came vesper chimes and wave-born 

melodies. 
So might one die, if Death his soul 

could bear 
So gently, Heaven before him float so 

fair! 

XXII 

This was the gate to Artists' Fairy- 
land. 

The palpitating waters kissed the 
shores, 

Gurgled in sparkling coils beneath the 
oars, 

And lapped the marble stairs on either 
hand, 

Summoning Beauty to her holiday : 

While noiseless gondolas at palace- 
doors 



Waited, and over all, in charmed 

delay, 
San Marco's moon gazed from her 

golden stand ! 

XXIII 

A silent city ! where no clattering 

wheels 
Jar the white pavement: cool the 

streets, and dumb, 
Save for a million whispering waves, 

which come 
To light their mellow darkness : where 

the peals 
Of Trade's harsh clarions never vex 

the ear, 
But the wide blue above, the green 

below, 
Her pure Palladian palaces in- 

sphere, — 
Piles, on whose steps the grass shall 

never grow ! 

XXIV 

I sat within the courts of Veronese 
And saw his figures breathe luxurious 

air, 
And felt the sunshine of their lustrous 

hair. 
Beneath the shade of Titian's awful 

trees 
I stood, and watched the Martyr's brow 

grow cold : 
Then came Giorgione, with his brush 

of gold, 
To paint the dames that make his 

memory fair, — 
The happy dames that never shall be 

old! 

XXV 

But most I lingered in that matchless 

hall 
Where soars Madonna with adoring 

arms 
Outspread, while deepening glories 

round her fall, 
And every feature of her mortal 

charms 
Becomes immortal, at the Father's call : 
Beneath her, silver-shining cherubs 

fold 
The clouds that bear her, slowly hea- 
venward rolled : 
The Sacred Mystery broodeth over 

all! 



THE ARTIST 



XXTI 

And still, as one asleep, I turned away 
To see the crimson of lier mantle burn 
In sunset clouds, the pearly deeps of 

day 
Filled with cherubic faces, — ah, to 

spurn 
My hopeless charts of pictures yet to 

be, 
And feed the fancies of a swift despair, 
Which mocked me from the azure 

arch of air, 
And from the twinkling beryl of the 

sea! 

XXVII 

If this bright bloom were inaccessi- 
ble 

"Which clad the world, and thus my 
senses stung, 

How could I catch the mingled tints 
that clung 

To cheek and throat, and softly down- 
ward fell 

In poise of shoulders and the breathing 
swell 

Of woman's bosom ? How the life in 
eyes, 

The glory on the loosened hair that lies, 

The "nameless music o'er her being 
flung ? 

XXVTII 

Or how create anew the sterner grace 
In man's heroic muscles sheathed or 

shown, 
Whether he stoops from the immortal 

zone 
Bare and majestic, god in limbs and 

face; 
Or lies, a faun, beside his mountain 

flock; 
Or clasps, a satyr, nymphs among 

the vine ; 
Or kneels, a hermit, in his cell of rock ; 
Or sees, a saint, his palms of glory 

shine! 

XXIX 

I took a fisher from the Lido's strand, 

A youthful shape, by toil and vice un- 
worn, 

Upon his limbs a golden flush like 
morn, 

And on his mellow cheek the roses 
tanned 



185 

Perchance the 



Of health and joy. 
soul I missed, 

From mine exalted fancy might be 
born : 

With eye upraised and locks by sun- 
shine kissed, 

I painted him as the Evangelist. 

XXX 

In vain ! — the severance of his lips ex- 
pressed 

Kisses of love whereon his fancy 
fed, 

And the warm tints each other sweetly 
wed 

In slender limb and balanced arch of 
breast, 

So keen with life, so marked in every 
line 

With unideal nature, none had guessed 

The dream that cheered me and the 
faith that led ; 

But human all I would have made di- 
vine ! 

XXXI 

I found a girl before San Marco's 

shrine 
Kneeling in gilded gloom : her tawny 

hair 
Rippled across voluptuous shoulders 

bare, 
And something in the altar-taper's 

shine 
Sparkled like falling tears. This girl 

shall be 
My sorrowing Magdalen, as guilty- 
sweet, 
I said, as when, pure Christ! she knelt 

to thee, 
And laid her blushing forehead on thy 

feet! 

XXXII 

She sat before me. Like a sunny 

brook 
Poured the unbraided ripples softly 

round 
The balmy dells, but left one snowy 

mound 
Bare in its beauty: then I met her 

look, — 
The conquering gaze of those bold 

eyes, which made, 
Ah, God! the unrepented sin more 

fair 



i86 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



Than Magdalen kneeling with her hum- 
bled hair, 

Or Agatha beneath the quaestor's 
blade ! 

XXXIII 

What if my chaste ambition wavered 

then ? 
What if the veil from mine own nature 

fell 
And I obeyed the old Circean spell, 
And lived for living, not for painted 

men ? 
Youth follows Life, as bees the honey- 
bell, 
And nightingales the northward march 

of Spring, 
And once, a dazzled moth, must try 

his wing, 
Though but to scorch it in the blaze of 

Hell ! , 

XXXIV 

Why only mimic what I might pos- 
sess? 

The cheated sense that revels in de- 
light 

Mocked at my long denial : touch and 
sight, 

The warmth of wine, the sensuous 
loveliness 

Of offered lips and bosoms breaking 
through 

The parted bodice: winds whose 
faint caress 

And wandering hands the daintiest 
dreams renew : 

The sea's absorbing and embracing 
blue : 

xxxv 
Of these are woven our being's out- 
ward veil 
Of rich sensation, which has power to 

part 
The pure, untroubled soul and 

drunken heart, — 
A screen of gossamer, but giants fail 
The bright, enchanted web to rend in 

twain. 
Two spirits dwell in us: one chaste 

and pale, 
A still recluse, whose garments know 

no stain, 
Whose patient lips are closed upon 

her pain: 



XXXVI 

The other bounding to her cymbal's 

clang, 
A bold Bacchante, panting with the 

race 
Of joy, the triumph and the swift 

embrace, 
And gathering in one cup the grapes 

that hang 
From every vine of Youth: around 

her head 
The royal roses bare their hearts of 

red; 
Music is on her lips, and from her face 
Fierce freedom shines and wild, allur- 
ing grace ! 

XXXVII 

Who shall declare that ever side by 
side 

To weave harmonious fate these spirits 
wrought ? 

To whom came ever one's diviner pride 

And one's full measure of delight, un- 
sought ? 

Who dares the cells of blood enrich, 
exhaust, 

Or trust his fortune unto either 
guide ? — 

So interbalanced hangs the equal cost 

Of what is ordered and of what is 
taught ! 

XXXVIII 

Surprised to Passion, my awakened 
life 

Whirled onward in a warm, delirious 
maze, 

At first reluctant, and with pangs of 
strife 

That dashed their bitter o'er my hon- 
eyed days, 

Until my soul's affrighted nun with- 
drew 

And left me free: for light that 
other's chains 

As garlands seemed, and fresh her 
wine as dew, 

And wide her robes to hide the ban- 
quet-stains ! 

XXXIX 

Those were the days of Summer which 

intrude 
Their sultry fervor on the realm of 

Spring, 




;^ l | l ! |l Mli; 



THE ARTIST 



And push its buds to sudden blossom- 
ing; 

When earth and air, with panting love 
imbued, 

O'erpower the subject life, and cease- 
less dart 

All round the warm horizon of the 
heart 

Heat-lightnings in the sky of youth, 
which first 

Regains its freshness when the bolts 
have burst. 



And thus, when that Sirocco's breath 
had passed, 

A refluent wind of health swept o'er 
my brain, 

Cold, swift, and searching ; and before 
it fast 

Fled the uncertain, misty shapes 
which cast 

Their glory on my dreams. The 
ardor vain 

That would have snatched, unearned, 
slow labor's crown, 

"Was dimmed ; and half with cour- 
age, half with pain, 

I guessed the path that led to old re- 
nown. 

XLI 

I turned my pictures, pitying the 
while 

My boyish folly, for I could not yet 

The dear deception of my youth for- 
get, 

And though it parted from me like an 
isle 

Of the blue sea behind some rushing 
keel, 

Still from the cliffs its temple seemed 
to smile, 

Fairer in fading: future morns re- 
veal 

No bowers so bright as yesterdays 
conceal. 

XLII 

The laughing boys that on the marble 
piers 

Lounge with their dangling feet 
above the wave ; 

The tawny faces of the gondoliers ; 

The low-browed girl, whose scarce- 
unfolded years 



187 

of her glances 



But half the lightninj 
gave ; — 

I sketched in turn, with busy hand 
and brave, 

And crushed my clouded hope's re- 
curring pang, 

And sweet " Tiwglio beneassal " sang. 

XLIII 

Then came the hour when I must say 

farewell 
To silent Venice in her crystal nest, — 
When with the last peals of San 

Marco's bell 
Her hushed and splendid pageant 

closed, and fell 
Like her own jewel in the ocean's 

breast. 
Belfry, and dome, and the superb array 
Of wave-born temples floated faraway, 
And the dull shores received me in 

the west. 

XLIV 

And past the Euganaean hills, that 

break 
The Adrian plain. I wandered to the 

Po, 
And saw Ferrara, vacant in her woe, 
Clasp the dim cell wherein her chil- 
dren take 
A ghastly pride from her immortal 

shame ; 
And hailed Bologna, for Caracci's 

sake, — 
The master bold, who scorned to court 

his fame, 
But bared his arm and dipped his 

brush in flame. 

XLV 

Through many a dark-red dell of 

Apennine, 
With chestnut-shadows in its brook- 
less bed, 
By flinty slopes whose only dew is 

wine, 
And hills the olives gave a hoary head, 
I climbed to seek the sunny vale 

where flows 
The Tuscan river, — where, when Art 

was dead, 
Lorenzo's spring thawed out the ages' 

snows, 
And green with life the eternal plant 

arose ! 



1 88 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



XL VI 

At last, from Pratolino's sloping crest, 

I saw the far, aerial, purple gleam, 

As from Earth's edge a fairer orb 
might seem 

In softer air and sunnier beauty- 
dressed, 

And onward swift with panting bosom 
pressed, 

Like one whose wavering will pursues 
a dream 

And shrinks from waking ; but the 
vision grew 

With every step distinct in form and 
hue: 



Till on the brink of ancient Fiesole, 

Mute, breathless, hanging o'er the 
dazzling deeps 

Of broad Val d'Arno, which the sink- 
ing day 

Drowned in an airy bath of rosy ray, — 

An atmosphere more dream-imbued 
than Sleep's, — 

My feet were stayed ; with sweet and 
sudden tears, 

And startled lifting of the cloud that 
lay 

Upon the landscape of the future 
years ! 

XL VIII 

I leaned against a cypress-bole, afraid 

With blind foretaste of coming ecs- 
tasy, 

So rarely on the soul the joy to be 

Prophetic dawns, so frequent falls the 
shade 

Of near misfortune ! All my senses 
sang, 

And lark-like soared and j ubilant and 
free 

The flock of dreams, that from my 
bosom sprang, 

O'er yonder towers to hover and to 
hang! 



Then, as the dusty road I downward 
paced, 

A phantom arch was ever builded nigh 

To span my coming, luminous and 
high ; 

And airy columns, crowned with cen- 
sers, graced 



The dreamful pomp, — with many a 

starry bell 
From garlands woven in the fading 

sky, 
And noiseless fountains shimmered, 

as they fell, 
Like meteor-fires that haunt a fairy 

dell ! 



Two maids, upon a terrace that o'er- 

hung 
The highway, lightly strove in laugh- 
ing play 
Each one the other's wreath to snatch 

away, 
With backward-bending heads, and 

arms that clung 
In intertwining beauty. Both were 

young, 
And one as my Madonna-dream was 

fair ; 
And she the garland from the other's 

hair 
Caught with a cunning hand, and 

poised, and flung. 



A fragrant ring of jasmine flowers, it 
sped, 

Dropping their elfin trumpets in its 
flight, 

And downward circling, on my star- 
tled head 

Some angel bade the diadem alight ! 

The cool green leaves and breathing 
blossoms white 

Embraced my brow with dainty, mute 
caress : 

I stood in rapt amazement, soul and 
sight 

Surrendered to that vision's loveliness. 

LII 

She, too, stood, smitten with the won- 
drous chance 

Whereby the freak of her unwitting 
hand 

A stranger's forehead crowned. I 
saw her stand, 

Most like some flying Hour, that, in 
her dance 

Perceives a god, and drops her 
courser's rein : 

Then, while I drank the fulness of her 
glance, 



THE ARTIST 



189 



Crept over throat and cheek a bashful 

stain, — 
She fled, yet flying turned, and looked 

again. 

LIII 

And I went forward, consecrated, 
blest, 

And garlanded like some returning 
Faun 

From Pan's green revels in the wood- 
land's breast. 

Here was a crown to give Ambition 
rest, 

A wreath for infant Love to slumber 
on! 

And blended, both in mine enchant- 
ment shone, 

Till Love was only Fame familiar 
grown, 

And Fame but Love triumphantly ex- 
pressed ! 



Such moments come to all whom Art 

elects 
To serve her, — Poet, Painter, Sculp- 
tor feel, 
Once in their lives the shadows which 

conceal 
Achievement lifted, and the world's 

neglects 
Are spurned behind them, like the 

idle dust 
"Whirled from Hyperion's golden 

chariot-wheel: 
Once vexing doubt is dumb, and long 

disgust 
Allayed, and Time and Fate and Fame 

are just! 

LV 

It is enough, if underneath our rags 

A single hour the monarch's purple 
shows. 

In dearth of praise no true ambition 
flags, 

And by his self-belief the student 
knows 

The master : nor was ever wholly dark 

The Artist's life. Though timid for- 
tune lags 

Behind his hope, there comes a day 
to mark 

The late renown that round his name 
shall close. 



LVI 

I dared not question my prophetic 
pride, 

But entered Florence as a conqueror, 

To whom should ope the Tribune's 
sacred door, 

Hearing his step afar. On every 
side 

Great works fed faith in greatness 
that endured 

Irrecognition, patient to abide 

Neglect that stung, temptations that 
allured, — 

Supremely proud and in itself se- 
cured ! 

LVII 

From the warm bodies Titian loved 

to paint, 
Where life still palpitates in languid 

glow ; 
From Raphael's heads of Virgin and 

of Saint, 
Bright with divinest message; from 

the slow 
And patient grandeur Leonardo 

wrought ; 
From soft, effeminate Carlo Dolce, 

faint 
With vapid sweetness, to the Titan 

thought 
That shaped the dreams of Michel 

Angelo : 

LVIII 

From each and all, through varied 

speech, I drew 
One sole, immortal revelation. They 
No longer mocked me with the hope- 
less view 
Of power that with them died, but 

gave anew 
The hope of power that cannot pass 

away 
While Beauty lives: the passion of 

the brain 
Demands possession, nor shall yearn 

in vain : 
Its nymph, though coy, did never yet 

betray. 

LIX 

It is not much to earn the windy 

praise 
That fans our early promise : every 

child 



190 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



Wears childhood's grace : in unbeliev- 
ing days 

One spark of earnest faith left unde- 
nted 

Will burn and brighten like the lamps 
of old, 

And men cry out in haste : ' ' Behold, a 
star!" 

Deeming some glow-worm light, that 
soon is cold, 

The radiant god's approaching avatar ! 

LX 

So I was hailed : and something fawn- 
like, shy, 

Caught from the loneliness of moun- 
tain-glens, 

That clung around me, drew the stran- 
ger's eye 

And held my life apart from other 
men's. 

Their prophecies were sweet, and if 
they breathed 

But ignorant hope and shallow plea- 
sure, I 

No less from them already saw be- 
queathed 

The crown by avaricious Glory 
wreathed. 

LXI 

And, climbing up to San Miniato's 
height, 

Among the cypresses I made a nest 

For wandering fancy : down the shim- 
mering west 

The Arno slid in creeping coils of light : 

O'er Boboli's fan -like pines the city 
lay 

In tints that freshly blossomed on the 
sight, 

Enringed with olive-orchards, thin 
and gray, 

Like moonlight falling in the lap of 
day. 



There sprang, before me, Giotto's 

ivory tower ; 
There hung, a planet, Brunelleschi's 

dome : 
Of living dreams Yal d'Arno seemed 

the home, 
From far Careggi's dim-seen laurel 

bower 
To Bellosguardo, smiling o'er the vale ; 



And pomp and beauty and supremest 
power, 

Blending and brightening in their 
bridal hour, 

Made even the blue of Tuscan sum- 
mers pale ! 

LXIII 

Immortal Masters ! Ye who drank 

this air 
And made it spirit, as the must makes 

wine, 
Be ye the intercessors of my prayer, 
Pure Saints of Art, around her holy 

shrine ! 
The purpose of your lives bestow on 

mine, — 
The child-like heart, the true, labori- 
ous hand 
And pious vision, — that my soul may 

dare 
One day to climb the summits where 

ye stand ! 

LXIV 

Say, shall my memory walk in yonder 
street 

Beside your own, ye ever-living shades? 

Shall pilgrims come, gray men and 
pensive maids, 

To pluck this moss because it knew 
my feet, 

And forms of mine move o'er the 
poet's mind 

In thoughts that still to haunting mu- 
sic beat, 

And Love and Grief and Adoration find 

Their speech in pictures I shall leave 
behind ? 



Ah ! they, the Masters, toiled where I 

but dreamed ! 
The crown was ready ere they dared to 

claim 
One leaf of honor : then, around them 

gleamed 
No Past, where rival souls of splendid 

name 
At once inspire and bring despair of 

fame. 
A naked heaven was o'er them, where 

to set 
Their kindled stars; and thus the 

palest yet 
Exalted burns o'er all that later came. 



THE ARTIST 



191 



LXVI 

They unto me were gods : for, though 

I felt 
That nobler 't was, creating, even to 

fail 
Than grandly imitate, my spirit knelt, 
Unquestioning, to their authority. 
I learned their lives, intent to find a 

tale 
Resembling mine, and deemed my 

vision free 
When most their names obscured with 

flattering veil 
That light of Art which first arose in 

me. 

LXVII 

And less for Beauty's single sake in- 
spired 

Than old interpretations to attain, 

I sought with restless hand and heated 
brain 

Their truth to reach, — by his example 
fired 

"Who sketched his mountain-goats on 
rock or sand, 

And his, the wondrous boy, beneath 
whose hand, 

Conferring sanctity with sweet dis- 
dain, 

A cask became a shrine, a hut a fane. 

lxviii 

My studio was the street, the market- 
place : 

I snared the golden spirit of the sun 

Amid his noonday freedom, — swiftly 
won 

The unconscious gift from many a 
passing face, — 

The spoils of color caught from daz- 
zling things, 

From unsuspecting forms the sudden 
grace, 

Alive with hope to find the hidden 
wings 

Of the Divine that from the Human 
springs. 

LXIX 

A jasmine garland hung above my 

bed, 
Withered and dry : beneath, a picture 

hung, — 
A shadowy likeness of the maid who 

flung 



That crown of welcome. On my 
sleeping head 

The glory of the vanished sunset fell, 

And still the leaves reviving fragrance 
shed, 

And dreams crept out of every jasmine- 
bell, 

Inebriate with their fairy hydromel. 



Where was my lost Armida? She 

had grown 
A phantom shape, a star of dreams, 

alone ; 
And I no longer dared to touch the 

dim 
Unfinished features, lest my brush 

should mar 
A memory swift as wings of cherubim 
That unto saints in prayer may flash 

afar 
Up the long steep of rifted cloudy 

walls, 
Wherethrough the overpowering 

glory falls. 

LXXI 

But, as the Rose will lend its excellence 
To the unlovely earth in which it 

grows, 
Until the sweet earth says, "I serve 

the Rose," 
So, penetrant with her was every 

sense. 
She filled me as the moon a sleeping 

sea, 
That shows the night her orb reflected 

thence, 
Yet deems itself all darkness : silently 
The dream of her betrayed itself in 

me. 

LXXII 

I had a cherished canvas, whereupon 
An antique form of inspiration grew 
To other life : beneath a sky of blue, 
Filled with the sun and limpid yet 

with dawn, 
A palm-tree rose : its glittering leaves 

were bowed 
As though to let no ray of sunlight 

through 
Their folded shade, and kept the 

early dew 
On all the flowers within its hovering 

cloud. 



192 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



LXXIII 

Madonna's girlish form, arrested there 
With poising foot, and parted lips, 

and eyes 
With innocent wonder, bright and glad 

surprise, 
And hands half -clasped in rapture or 

in prayer, 
Met the Announcing Angel. On her 

sight 
He burst in splendor from the sunny 

air, 
Making it dim around his perfect' 

. light, 
And in his hand the lily-stem he bare. 

LXXIV 

Naught else, save, nestling near the 
Virgin's feet, 

A single lamb that wandered from its 
flock, 

And one white dove, upon a splintered 
rock 

Above the yawning valleys, dim with 
heat. 

Beyond, the rifted hills of Gilead flung 

Their phantom shadows on the burn- 
ing veil, 

And, far away, one solitary, pale 

Vermilion cloud above the Desert 
hung. 

LXXV 

I painted her, a budding, spotless 

maid, 
That has not dreamed of man, — for 

God's high choice 
Too humble, yet too pure to be afraid, 
And from the music of the Angel's 

voice 
And from the lily's breathing heart of 

gold 
Inspired to feel the mystic beauty 

laid 
Upon her life : the secret is untold, 
Unconsciously the message is obeyed. 

LXXVI 

How much I failed, myself alone 

could know ; 
How much achieved, the world. My 

picture took 
Its place with others in the public 

show, 
And many passed, and some remained 

to look. 



While I, in flushed expectancy and 

fear, 
Stood by to watch the gazers come 

and go, 
To note each pausing face, perchance 

to hear 
A careless whisper tell me Fame was 

near. 

LXXVII 

"Tis Ghirlandajo's echo!" some 

would say ; 
And others, ' ' Here one sees a pupil's 

hand." 
"An innovation, crude, but fairly 

planned," 
Remarked the connoisseur, and moved 

away, 
Sublimely grave : but one, sometimes, 

would stand 
Silent, with brightening face. No 

more than this, 
Though voiceless praise, ambition 

could demand, 
And for an hour I felt the Artist's 

bliss. 

LXXVIII 

One day, a man of haughty port drew 
nigh, — 

A man beyond his prime, but still un- 
bent, 

Though the first flakes of age already 
lent 

Their softness to his brow : his wan- 
dering eye 

Allowed its stately patronage to glide 

Along the pictures, till, with gaze 
intent 

He fixed on mine, and startled won- 
derment 

Displaced his air of cold, indifferent 
pride. 

LXXIX 

" Signor Marchese!" cried, approach- 
ing, one 

Who seemed a courtly comrade, "can 
it be 

That in these daubs the touch of Art 
you see, — 

These foreign moons that ape our 
native sun ? " 

To whom he said: "The Virgin, 
Count! 'Tis she, 

My Clelia ! like a portrait just begun, 



THE ARTIST 



193 



Where the design is yet but half 

avowed, 
And shimmers on you through a misty 

cloud : 

LXXX 

" So, here, I find her. 'T is a marvel- 
lous chance. 

Your painters choose some peasant 
beauty's face 

For their Madonnas, striving to en- 
hance 

By softer tints her coarse plebeian 
grace 

To something heavenly. Here, the 
features wear 

A noble stamp : who painted this is 
fit 

That Clelia's self beside his canvas 
sit, — 

His hand, methinks, might fix her 
shadow there." 

LXXXI 

" 'Tis true, — you wed her then, as I 

have heard, 
And to the young Colonna ? " "Even 

so: 
We made the family compact long 

ago. 
A wilful blade, they say, but every 

bird 
Is wiser when he owns a nested mate ; 
And I shall lose her ere the winter's 

snow 
Falls on the Apennine, — a father's 

fate! 
But from these two my house again 

may grow. 

LXXXIT 

" She lost, her picture in the lonely hall 
Shall speak, from silent lips, her sweet 

1 good-night ! ' 
And soothe my childless fancy. I'll 

invite 
This painter to the work: his brush 

has all 
The graces of a hand which takes de- 
light 
In noble forms, — and thus may best 

recall, 
Though nameless he, what Palma's 

brush divine 
Found in the beauteous mothers of her 

line ! " 



LXXXIII 

I heard ; but trembling, turned away 

to hide 
An ecstasy no longer to be quelled, — 
The lover's longing and the artist's 

pride : 
For, though the growing truth of 

life dispelled 
My rash ideal, my very blood had 

caught 
The fine infection : from my heart it 

welled, 
Colored each feeling, perfumed every 

thought, 
And gave desire what hope had left 

unsought ! 

Lxxxrv 
'Twas blind, unthinking rapture. 

Who was she, 
Pandolfo's daughter, young Colonna's 

bride, 
The pampered maiden of a house of 

pride, 
That I, though but in thought, should 

bend the knee 
Before her beauty ? She was set too 

high, 
And her white lustre wore patrician 

stains, 
Like sunshine falling through heraldic 

panes 
That rise between the altar and the 

sky. 

LXXXV 

Next day the Marquis came. With 

antique air 
Of nicest courtesy, his words did sue 
The while his tone commanded : could 

I spare 
Some hours ? — a portrait only, it was 

true, 
But the Great Masters painted portraits 

too, 
Even Raffaello: at his palace, then! 
The Lady Clelia would await me 

there : 
His thanks, — to-morrow, should it 

be? — at ten. 

LXXXVI 

But when the hour approached, and 

o'er me hung 
The shadow of the high Palladian 

walls, 



194 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



My heart beat fast in feverish inter- 
vals: 

I half drew back: the lackeys open 
flung 

The brazen portals, — broad before 
me rose 

The marble stairs, — above them 
gleamed the halls, 

And I ascended, as a man who goes 

To see some unknown gate of life 
unclose. 

LXXXVII 

They bore my easel to a spacious room 
Whose northern windows curbed the 

eager day, 
But under them a sunny garden lay : 
A fountain sprang : the myrtles were 

in bloom, 
And I remembered, — "ere the win- 
ter's snow 
Cloaks Apennine " Colonna bears away 
Her who shall wear them. 'T is a 

woman's doom, 
I laughed, — she seeks no other : let 
her go ! 

LXXXVIII 

Lo ! rustling forward with a silken 

sound, 
Her living self advanced ! — as fair and 

frail 
As May's first lily in a Northern vale, 
As light in airy grace, as when she 

crowned 
Her painter's head, — the Genius of 

my Fame ! 
Ah, words are vain where Music's 

tongue would fail, 
And Color' s brigh test miracl es be found 
Imperfect, cold, to match her as she 

came ! 

LXXXIX 

The blood that gathered, stifling, at 

my heart, 
Surged back again, and burned on 

cheek and brow. 



"Your model!" smiled the Marquis; 

' ' you '11 avow 
That she is not unworthy of your 

art. 
I see you note the likeness, — it is 

strange : 
But since you dreamed her face so 

nearly, now 
You '11 paint it, — as she is, — I want 

no change : " 
Then left, with wave of hand and 

stately bow. 

xc 
A girlish wonder dawned in Clelia's 

face. 
Her frank, pure glances seemed to 

question mine, 
Or scanned my features, seeking to 

retrace 
Her way to me along some gossamer 

line 
Of memory, almost found, then lost 

again. 
Meanwhile, I set my canvas in its 

place, 
Recalled the artist-nature, though with 

pain, 
And tamed to work the tumult of my 

brain. 

xci 

" I give you trouble," then she gently 

said. 
My brow was damp, my hand un- 
steady. "Nay," 
I answered: "'tis the grateful price I 

pay 
For that fair wreath you cast upon 

my head." 
She started, blushing : all at once she 

found 
The shining clew, — her silvery 

laughter made 
The prelude to her words: "the 

flowers will fade, 
But by your hand am I forever 

crowned ! " 



THE WOMAN 



x 95 



BOOK II 
THE WOMAN 



Oh give not Beauty to an artist's eye 
And deem his heart, untroubled, can 

withstand 
Her necromancy, changing earth and 

sky 
To one wide net wherein her captives 

lie! — 
Nor, since his mind the measure takes, 

his hand 
Essays the semblance of each hue and 

line, 
That cold his pulses beat, as if he 

scanned 
Her marble death and not her life di- 
vine ! 

ii 
How could I view the sombre-shining 

hair 
Without the tingling, passionate wish 

to feel 
Its silken smoothness? How the 

golden-pale 
Pure oval of the face, the forehead 

fair, 
The light of eyes whose dusky depths 

conceal 
Love's yet unkindled torch, and wear 

the mail 
Of cruel Art, that bade me mimic 

bliss 
And only paint the mouth I burned 

to kiss ? 

in 
So near, the airy wave her voice set 

free 
Smote warm against my cheek! So 

near, I heard 
The folds that hid her bosom, as they 

stirred 
Above the heart -beat measuring now, 

for me, 
Life's only music ! Ah, so near, and 

yet 
Between us rose a wall I could not 

see, 



To dash me back, — before the wings 

that fret 
For love's release, a crystal barrier set ! 



I kissed, in thought, each clear, deli- 
cious tint 
That lured my mocking hand: my 

passion flung 
Its lurking sweetness over every print 
Of the soft brush that to her beauty 

clung, 
And fondled while it toiled, — and 

day by day 
The canvas brightened with her 

brightening face: 
The artist gloried in the picture's 

grace, 
But, ah! the lover's chances lapsed 

away. 



And now, — the last! The grapes al- 
ready wore 
Victorious purple, ere their trodden 

death, 
The olives darkened through their 

branches hoar, 
And from below the tuberose's breath 
Died round the casement, from the 

spicy shore 
Of ripened summer, passionate as the 

sigh 
I stifled : and my heart said, — 

" Speak or die! 
The moment's fate stands fixed for- 

evermore." 

VI 

The naked glare of breezeless afternoon 

Dazzled without : the garden swooned 
in heat. 

The old duenna drooped her head, 
and soon 

Behind the curtain slumbered in her 
seat. 

Within my breast the crowded, pant- 
in s beat 



196 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



Disturbed my hand : the pencil fell : 

I turned, 
And with imploring eyes and tears 

that burned 
Sank in despairing silence at her 

feet. 



I did not dare look up, but knelt, as 
waits 

A foiled tyrannicide the headsman's 
blow : 

At first a frightened hush, — the 
stealthy, slow, 

Soft rustle of her dress, — a step like 
Fate's 

To crown or smite : but now descend- 
ed, where 

Her garland fell, her hand upon my 
hair, 

And, light as floating leaf of orchard- 
snow 

Loosed by the pulse of Spring, it 
trembled there. 



Then I looked up, — Oh, grace of 
God ! to feel 

Her answering tears like dew upon 
my brow ; 

To touch and kiss her blessing hand ; 
to seal 

Without a word the one eternal 
vow 

Of man and woman, when their lives 
unite 

Thenceforth forever, soul and body 
shared, 

Like those the Grecian goddess, pity- 
ing, paired 

To form the young, divine Herma- 
phrodite. 

IX 

I breathed: "You do not love Co- 
lonna?" "No," 

She whispered, " aid me, I am yours 
to save ! " 

' ' I yours to help, your lover and 
your slave, — 

My soul, my blood is yours," I mur- 
mured low. 

The old duenna stirred : ' ' When ? 
where ? one hour 

For your commands ! " As hurriedly 
she gave 



Reply : " The garden, — yonder dark- 
est bower, 

When midnight tolls from Santa 
Croce's tower!" 



Ere the immortal light had time to 

fade 
In either' s eyes, the old Marchese 

came. 
I veiled, in toil, the flush that still 

betrayed, 
And Clelia, strong to hide her maiden 

shame, 
The motion of her father's hand obeyed 
And left us. Gravely he my work 

surveyed : 
"'Tis done, I think, — 'tis she, in- 
deed," he said : 
"'Twas time," he muttered, as he 

turned his head. 



I bowed in silence, took his offered 

gold, 
And down the marble stairs, through 

doors that cried, 
On scornful hinges, of their owner's 

pride, 
Passed on my way : my happy heart 

did fold 
Pandolfo's treasure in its secret hold, 
And every bell that chimed the feeble 

day 
Down to its crimson burial, seemed to 

say: 
"Not yet, not yet, for Love our 

tongues have tolled ! " 



More slowly rolled the silver disk 
above 

The hiding hills, than ever moon came 
up: 

The sky's begemmed and sapphire- 
tinted cup 

Spilled o'er its dew, and Heaven in 
nuptial love 

Stretched forth his mystic arms, and 
crouched beside 

The yearning Earth, his dusky-fea- 
tured bride: 

The pulses of the Night began to 
move, 

And Life's eternal secret ruled the 
tide. 



THE WOMAN 



197 



Along the shadow of the garden-walls 

I crept : the streets were still, or only 
beat 

To wavering echoes by unsteady feet 

Of wine-flushed revellers from banquet 
halls. 

They saw me not : the yielding door I 
gained, 

And glided down a darksome alley, 
sweet 

With slumbering roses, to the shy re- 
treat 

Of bashful bliss and yearning unpro- 
faned. 



The amorous odors of the moveless 

air, — 
Jasmine and tuberose and gillyflower, 
Carnation, heliotrope, and purpling 

shower 
Of Persian roses, — kissed my senses 

there 
To keenest passion, clad my limbs 

with power 
Like some young god's, when at the 

banquet first 
He drinks fresh deity with eager 

thirst, — 
And midnight rang from Santa Croce's 

tower ! 

xv 
She came ! a stealthy, startled, milk- 
white fawn, 
Thridding the tangled bloom : a balmy 

wave 
Foreran her coming, and the blushful 

dawn 
Of Love its color to the moonlight 

gave, 
And Xight grew splendid. In a trance 

divine, 
Hand locked in hand, with kissing 

pulse, we clung, 
Then heart to heart ; and all her being 

flung 
Its sweetness to the lips, and mixed 

with mine. 

XVI 

Immortal Hour, whose starry torch 

did guide 
Eternal Love to his embalmed nest 
In virgin bosoms, — Hour, supremely 

blest 



Beyond thy sisters, lift thy brow in 

pride, 
And say to her whose muffled beams 

invest 
The bed where Strength lies down at 

Beauty's side, 
' ' Before my holier lamp thy forehead 

hide : 
Give up thy crown : the joy I bring is 

best ! " 

XVII 

" O saved, not lost, — Madonna, bless 

thy child ! " 
She murmured then ; and I as fondly, 

"Death 
Come now, and close my over-happy 

breath 
On sacred lips, that shall not be defiled 
By grosser kisses ! " " Fail me not," 

she said, 
And clung the closer, — " God is over- 
head, 
And hears you." " Yea," I whispered 

wild, 
"And may His thunder strike the 

false one dead ! " 

XVIII 

No thought had she of lineage or of 

place : 
Love washed the colors from her blaz- 
oned shield 
To make a mirror for her lover's face, 
Unto patrician ignorance revealed 
The bliss to give, the ecstasy to yield, 
And now, descended from her stately 

dream, 
She trod the happy level of her race, 
In perfect, sweet surrender, faith su- 
preme. 



With cautious feet, in dewy sandals 

shod, 
And sidelong look, the perfumed 

Hours went by ; 
Until the azure darkness of the sky 
Withered aloft, and shameless Morning 

trod 
Her clashing bells. Our paradise was 

past, 
And yet to part was bitterer than to die. 
We rose : we turned : we held each 

other fast, 
Each kiss the fonder as it seemed the 

last. 



198 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



xx 

O happy Earth! To Love's trium- 
phant heart 

Thou still art convoyed by the singing 
stars 

That hailed thy birth : Heaven's beau- 
teous counterpart, 

No shadow dims thee, no convulsion 
mars 

Thy fair green bosom : on thy fore- 
head shine 

The golden lilies of the bridegroom 
Day, 

Thy hoary forests take the bloom of 
May, 

Thy seas the sparkle of the autumn 
wine! 

XXI 

Serenely beautiful, the brightening 
morn 

Led on the march of mine enchanted 
round 

Of days, wherein the world was freshly 
born, 

And men with primal purity re- 
crowned : 

So deep my drunkenness of heart and 
brain, 

That Art, o'ershadowed, sat as if for- 
lorn 

In Love's excess of glory, and in vain 

Essayed my old allegiance to regain. 



She to the regions o'er our lives un- 
furled 
Is turned : from that which never is, 

she draws 
Her best achievements and her finest 

laws, 
And more enriches than she owes, the 

world, — 
Whence, leading Life, she rules; till 

Life, in turn, 
Feels in its veins the warmer ether 

burn, 
Asserts itself, and bids its service 

pause, 
To be the beauty it was vowed to earn ! 

XXIII 

And my transfigured heart no baby- 
love, 

With dimpled face, had taken to its 
nest, 



But that Titanic, pre-Olympian guest, 
The elder god, who bears his slaves 

above 
The fret of Time, the frowns of Cir- 
cumstance ; 
And, twin with Will, engendered in 

my breast 
A certain vision of a life in rest, 
And love secured against the shocks 
of chance. 

XXIV 

It was enough to feel his potent arm 

Lift me aloft, like giant Christopher, 

Above the flood. Could he the dragon 
charm 

Whose fanged and gilded strength 
still guarded her ? 

The crumbling pride of twice three 
hundred years, 

Trembling in dotage at the ghost of 
harm, 

Could he subdue ? Ah, wherefore 
summon fears 

To vex the faith that never reap- 
pears ! 

XXV 

But she the more, whose swift-ap- 
proaching fate 

Shamed the exulting bliss that made 
me free, 

And clouded hers, thereon did medi- 
tate. 

When next she met me at the garden- 
gate, 

Its chilling shadow fell upon me. 
"See!" 

She said, and dangled in the balmy 
dark 

(The moon was down) a chain of 
jewelry, 

That, snake-like, burned with many 
a diamond spark. 



"His bridal gift!" she whispered: 
' ' he will come, 

Erelong, to claim me. Speech, and 
tears, and prayer, 

Are vain my father's will to over- 
bear, 

And better were it had my lips been 
dumb. 

Incredulous, he heard with wondering 
stare 



My pleading: 'Keep me, father 

your side ! 
I will" not be that wanton prince's 

bride, — 
Unwed, your lonely palace let me 

share ! ' 

XXVII 

" Much more I said, not daring to re- 
veal 

Our secret ; but, alas ! I spoke in vain. 

He coldly smiled and raised me : 'Do 
not kneel, — 

'T is useless : here 's a pretty, childish 
rain 

For nothing, but the sun will shine 
anon. 

What ails the girl ? the compact shall 
remain. 

Pandolfo's name is not so newly won, 

That we can smutch it, and not feel 
the stain.' 

XXVIII 

" He spoke my doom; but death were 
sweeter now, 

Since, O my best-beloved, life alone 

Is where your eyes, your lips, can 
meet my own, 

And Heaven commands, that regis- 
tered your vow, 

To save me, and fulfil it!" Then, 
around 

My neck her white, imploring arms 
were thrown ; 

Her heart beat in mine ears with plain- 
tive sound, 

So close and piteously she held me 
bound. 

XXIX 

Ah me ! 't was needless further to re- 
hearse 
The old romance, that life has ne'er 

belied, 
The old offence which love repeats to 

pride, — 
The strife, the supplication, and the 

curse 
Hung like a thunder-cloud above the 

dawn, 
To threat the day : it better seemed, 

tony 
Beyond the circle of that sullen sky, 
And storms let idly loose when we 

were gone. 



5 WOMAN 

at 



199 



XXX 

"Darling," I answered, staking all 
my fate 

On the sole chance within my beg- 
gared hands, — 

"Darling, the wealth of love is my 
estate, 

Save one poor home, that in a valley 
stands, 

Cool, dark, and lonesome, far beyond 
the line 

Of wintry peaks that guard the sum- 
mer lands ; 

But shelter safe, though paler suns 
may shine, 

And Paradise, when once 'tis yours 
and mine ! 

XXXI 

" See ! I am all I give : I cannot ask 
That you should leave the laurel and 

the rose, 
And halls of yellowing marble, meant 

to bask 
In endless sun, and airs of old repose 
That fan the beauteous ages, elsewhere 

lost, — 
To see the world put on its deathly 

mask 
Of low, gray sky and ever-deepening 

snows, 
And dip its bowers in darkness and in 

frost." 

XXXII 

"Nay, let" (she cried) "his mellow 

marbles shine 
In Roman noons, — his fountains flap 

the airs, 
And rank and splendor crowd his 

gilded stairs, 
Wait in his halls, or drink his ban- 
quet-wine, — 
So ne'er the hateful pomp I spurn be 

mine; 
But take me, love ! for ah, the father, 

too, 
Who for his early claims my later cares, 
Is leagued with him, — and I am left 

to you ! " 

XXXIII 

" So, then, shall Summer cross the 

Alpine chain 
And scare the autumn crocus from the 

meads ; 



200 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



And the wan naiads, 'mid their brittle 

reeds, 
Feel the chill wave its languid pulse 

regain, 
Wooing the azure brook-flowers into 

bloom 
To greet your coming; and the golden 

rain 
Of beechen forests shall your path 

illume, 
Till the Year's bonfire burn away its 

gloom ! " 

xxxiv 

Thus, at her words, my sudden rap- 
ture threw 

Its glory on the scene so bleak before, 

As to the nightly mariner a shore 

That out of hollow darkness slowly 
grew, 

Seeming huge cliffs that menaced 
with the roar 

Of hungry surf, when Morning lifts 
her torch 

Flashes at once to gardens dim with 
dew, 

And homes and temples fair with pil- 
lared porch. 

xxxv 

"Away!" was Love's command, and 
we obeyed ; 

And Chance assisted, ere three times 
the sun 

Looked o'er the planet's verge, that 
swiftly spun 

To bring the hour so perilously de- 
layed 

My fortune with Colonna's now was 
weighed ; 

But that brief time of love's last lib- 
erty— 

Pandolfo called to Rome, ere aught 
betrayed 

His daughter's secret — turned the 
scale to me. 

xxxvi 
My mules were waiting by the city 

gate, 
With Gianni, quick to lead a lover's 

fate 
Along the bridle-paths of Apennine, — 
A gallant contadino, whom I knew 
From crown to sole, each joint and 

clear-drawn line 



Of plaited muscle, healthy, firm, and 

true ; 
And midnight struck, as from the 

garden came 
She who forsook for me her home and 

name. 

XXXVII 

With them she laid aside her silken 

shell 
And jewel-sparks, and chains of moony 

pearl, — 
Bright, babbling toys, that of her rank 

might tell, — 
And wore, to cheat the drowsy sentinel, 
The scarlet bodice of a peasant-girl, 
Her wealth the golden dagger in her 

hair: 
The haughty vestures from her beauty 

fell, 
Leaving her woman, simply pure and 

fair. 

XXXVIII 

The gate was passed: before us, 

through the night, 
We traced the dusky road, and far 

away, 
Where ceased the stars, we knew the 

mountains lay. 
There must we climb before their 

shoulders, white 
With autumn rime, should redden to 

the day ; 
But now a line of faintly-scattered 

light 
Plays o'er the dust, and the old olives 

calls 
To ghostly life above the orchard- 
walls. 

xxxix 

A little chapel, built by pious hands, 

That foot-sore pilgrims from the blis- 
tering soil 

May turn, or laborers from summer 
toil 

To rest that breathes of God, it open 
stands ; 

And there her shrine with daily flow- 
ers is dressed, 

Her lamp is nightly trimmed and fed 
with oil, 

The Mater Dolorosa, in whose breast, 

Bleeding, the seven swords of woe are 
pressed. 



THE WOMAN 



201 



"Stay!" whispered Clelia, as the 

narrow vault 
Yawned with its faded frescoes, and 

the lamp 
Revealed, untouched by rust or blurred 

with damp, 
The Virgin's face: it beckoned us to halt 
And lay our love before her feet divine, 
A priestless sacrament, — so kneeling 

there 
In self -bestowed espousal, Clelia' s 

prayer 
Spake to the Mother's heart her trust 

in mine. 



" O Sorrowing Mother ! Heaven's ex- 
alted Queen ! 
Star of the Sea! Lily among the 

Thorns ! 
Clothed with the sun, while round 

Thy feet serene 
The crescent planet curves her silver 

horns, 
Be Thou my star to still this trembling 

sea 
Within my bosom, — let the love that 

mourns 
One with the love that here rejoices, be, 
Soothed in Thy peace, acceptable to 

Thee! 

XLH 

"Thou who dost hide the maiden's 
virgin fear 

In thine enclosed garden, Fountain 
sealed 

Of Woman's holiest secrets, bend 
Thine ear 

To these weak words of one whose 
heart must yield 

This temple of the body Thou didst 
wear 

To love, — and by Thy pity, oft re- 
vealed, 

Pure Priestess, hearken to Thy daugh- 
ter's prayer. 

And bless the bond, of other blessing 
bare! 

XLIII 

"Mother of Wisdom, in whose heart 

are thrust 
The seven swords of Sorrow, in whose 

pain 



Thy chaste Divinity draws near again 
To maids and mothers, crying from 

the dust, — 
Who ne'er forgettest any human woe, 
Once doubly Thine, Thy grace and 

comfort show, 
And perfect make, O Star above the 

Sea, 
These nuptial pledges, only heard by 

Thee ! " 

XLIV 

Then Clelia's hand entrusted she to 

mine, 
Who knelt beside her, and the vow 

she spake, 
Weeping : "I take him, Mother, at 

Thy shrine. 
Home, country, father, leave I for his 

sake, 
Give my pure name, my maiden honor 

break 
For him, my spouse!" And I: "I 

give my life, 
Chaste, faithful to the end, to her, my 

wife, 
Whom here, O Mother, at Thy hands 

I take ! " 

XLV 

Thus, in the lack of Earth's ordaining 

rite, t 
Did our own selves our union conse- 
crate ; 
But God was listening from the hollow 

Night. 
Beyond the stars we felt His smile 

create 
Dawn in the doubtful twilight of our 

fate : 
Peace touched our hearts and sacredest 

content: 
The veil was lifted from our perfect 

light 
Of nuptial love, pure-burning, reverent. 



The Sorrowing Mother gazed. So 

pure the kiss 
I gave, Her own divinest lips had ta'en 
From mine no trace of sense-reflected 

stain ; 
But Gianni called us from the dream 

of bliss. 
"Haste, Signor, haste!" he cried: 

' ' the Bear drops low : 



202 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



Soon will the cocks in all the gardens 

crow 
The morning watch : day comes, and 

night again, 
But come to part, not mate, unless 

you go!" 

XL VII 

Then silent, side by side, we forward 

fled 
Through the chill airs of night : each 

falling hoof 
Beat like a flail beneath the thresher's 

roof, 
In quick, unvarying time : and rosy- 
red 
Crept o'er the gray, as nimbly Gianni 

led 
Our devious flight along the barren 

steeps, 
Till, far beyond the sinking, misty 

deeps, 
The sun forsook his Adriatic bed. 

XLVIII 

There is a village perched, as you 

emerge 
From the Santerno's long and winding 

vale 
Towards Imol&, upon the cliffy verge 
Of the last northern prop of Apen- 

nine, — 
Old, yellow houses, hinting many a 

tale 
Of ducal days and Este's tragic line, 
And over all uplifted, orange pale 
Against the blue, a belfry slim and 

fine. 

XLIX 

With weary climbing of the rocky 

stair 
Thither we came, and in a hostel 

rude 
Sat down, outworn, to breathe securer 

air, 
Our guide dismissed, nor eyes that 

might intrude, 
Among the simple inmates of the 

place. 
The brightest stars of heaven watched 

o'er us there 
In sweet conjunction, every dread to 

chase, 
To close the Past, and make the Fu- 
ture fair. 



Ah, had we dared to linger in that 
nest, — 

To watch from under overhanging 
eaves, 

The loaded vines, the poplars' twin- 
kling leaves, — 

Afar, the breadth of the Romagna's 
breast 

And Massa's, Lugo's towers, — the 
little stir 

Of innocent life, caress and be caressed, 

Rank, Art, and Fame among the 
things that were, 

And all her bliss in me, as mine in her ! 



But Florence was too near : my pur- 
pose held 

To bear and hide our happiness afar 

In the dark mountains, lonely, green- 
est-delled ; 

And still, each night, the never-setting 
star 

We followed took in heaven a loftier 
stand, — 

Sparkled on other rivers, other towns, 

Glinting from icy horns and snowy 
crowns 

Until we trod the green Bavarian land I 

LII 

And evermore, behind us on the road, 

Pursuit, a phantom, drove. If we 
delayed, 

Some coward pulse our meeting 
bosoms frayed ; 

Our tale the breezes blew, the sun- 
shine glowed ; 

The stars our secret ecstasies betrayed : 

Drunk with our passion's vintage, we 
must fill 

The cup too full, and tremble lest it 
spill, — 

Obeying, thus, the law we would 
evade. 

LTII 

Now, from that finer ether sinking 

down 
Into the humble, universal air, 
The images of many a human care 
That, wren-like, build beneath the 

thatch of love, 
Came round us. O'er the watery 

levels, brown 



THE WOMAN 



203 



With autumn stubble, the departing 
dove 

Cooed her farewell to summer : rainy - 
cold 

Through rocky gates the yellow Dan- 
ube rolled. 

LIV 

Grim were the mountains, with their 

dripping pines 
Planted in sodden moss, and swiftly o'er 
Their crests the clouds their dying 

fleeces tore : 
The herd -boy, from his lair of furze 

and vines 
Peered out, beside his dogs ; and 

forms uncouth, 
The axemen, from the steeps descend- 
ing, wore 
The strength of manhood, but its 

grace no more, — 
The lust, without the loveliness, of 

youth ! 

LV 

The swollen streams careered beside 
us, hoarse 

As warning prophets in an evil age, 

And through the stormy fastnesses 
our course, 

Blown, buffeted with elemental rage, 

Fell, with the falling night, to that 
lone vale 

I pictured, with its meads of crocus- 
bloom. — 

Ah me, engulfed and lost in drowning 
gloom, 

The helpless sport and shipwreck of 
the °;ale ! 



Where now the bright autumnal bon- 
fires ? Where 
The gold of beechen woods, the 

prodigal 
And dazzling waste of color in its fall ? 
The brook-flowers, bluer than the 

morning-air ? 
" My pomp of welcome mocked you, 

love ! " I sighed : 
"The sign was false, the flattering 

dream denied : 
Unkind is Nature, yet all skies are 

fair 
To trusting hearts, when once their 

truth is tried ! " 



LVTT 

But Clelia shuddered, clinging to my 

heart 
When the low roof received us, and the 

sound 
Of threshing branches boomed and 

whistled round 
Our cot, that stood a little way apart 
Against the forest, from the village 

strayed, 
Where cunning workmen in their pris- 
ons bound 
The roaring Fiend of Fire, and forced 

his aid 
To mould the crystal wonders of their 

trade. 

Lvin 
Poor was our home, and when the 

rainy sky 
Brought forth a child of Night, an 

Ethiop day, 
And still the turbid torrents thundered 

by, 

From the drear landscape she would 

turn away, — 
Her thoughts, perchance, where gilded 

Florence lay, — 
To hide a tear, or crush a rising sigh, 
Then sing the sweet Italian songs, 

where run 
Twin rills of words and music into one. 



I, too, beneath the low-hung rafters 
saw 

In dusk that filtered through the nar- 
row panes, 

My palette spread with colors dull and 
raw, 

Once ripe and juicy-fresh as blossom- 
stains. 

The dim, beclouded season never 
brought 

The light that flatters ; but its mists 
and rains 

Like eating rust upon my canvas 
wrought, 

And turned to substance cold the 
tinted thought. 

LX 

Around me moved a rough and simple 

race 
Whose natures, fresh and uncontami- 

nate, 



204 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



Gave truth to life, and smoothed their 
toilful fate 

With honesty and love — but lacked 
the grace 

Of strength allied to beauty, or the 
free 

Unconscious charm of Southern sym- 
metry, 

And motions measured by a rhythm 
elate 

And joyous as the cadence of the sea. 

LXI 

For if, at times, among the slaves who 

fed 
The ever-burning kilns, in fiercest glow 
Some naked torso momently would 

show 
Like Hell's strong angel, dipped in 

lurid red, 
No model this for Saviour, seraph, 

saint, 
Ensphered in golden ether : Labor's 

taint 
Defaced the form, and here 't were vain, 

I said, 
Some lovely hint to find, and finding, 

paint ! 

LXII 

Ah, Art and Love ! Immortal brother- 
gods, 

That will not dwell together, nor apart, 

Butmake your temple in your servant's 
heart 

A house of battle. One his forehead 
nods 

In drowsy bliss, and will not be dis- 
turbed, 

The other's eager forces work un- 
curbed, 

Yet most in each the other lives ; and 
each 

Mounts by the other's help his crown 
to reach. 

LXIII 

To Love my debt was greatest : I com- 
pelled 

Back to their sleep the dreams that 
stung in vain, 

And folded Clelia in a love which held 

The heart all fire, although its flame 
was nursed 

By embers borrowed from the smoul- 
dering brain. 



For her had Art aspired ; but now, re- 
versed 
The duty, Art for her must abnegate 
Its restless, proud resolves, and idly 
wait. 

LXIV 

The rains had whitened in the upper air, 

And left their chill memorials glitter- 
ing now 

On Arber's shoulders, Ossa's horned 
brow ; 

The summer forest of its gold wasbare ; 

Loud o'er the changeless pines Novem- 
ber drove 

His frosty steeds, through narrowing 
days that wear 

No light; and Winter settled from 
above, 

White, heavy, cold, around our nest 
of love. 

LXV 

The sportive fantasies of wind and 

snow, 
The corniced billows which they love 

to pile, 
The ermined woods, with boughs de- 
pending low, 
To buttress frozenly each darksome 

aisle, 
The spectral hills which twilight veils 

in dun, 
The season's hushing sounds, — my 

Clelia won 
From haunting memories, and stayed 

awhile 
Her homesick pining for the Tuscan 

sun. 

LXVI 

Only, when after briefest day, the moon 

Poured down an icy light, and all 
around 

Came from the iron woods a crackling 
sound, 

As from the stealthy steps of Cold, 
and soon 

The long-drawn howl of famished 
wolf was heard 

Far in the mountains, like a shudder- 
ing bird 

Beside my heart a nestling place she 
found, 

And smiled to hear my fond, assur- 
ing word. 



THE WOMAN 



205 



LXVII 

So drifted on, till Death's white shadow 

passed 
From edged air and stony earth, our 

fate : 
Then from the milder cloud and loosen- 
ing blast 
Unto his sunnier nooks returning late, 
Came Life, and let his flowery footprint 

stand. 
Softer than wing of dove, the winds at 

last 
Kissed where they smote ; the skies 

were blue and bland, 
And in their lap reposed the ravished 

land. 

Lxvni 

Then tears of gummy crystal wept 

the pine, 
And like a phantom plume, the sea- 
green larch 
Was dropped along the mountain's 

lifted arch, 
And morning on the meadows seemed 

to shine, 
All day, in blossoms : cuckoo-songs 

were sweet, 
And sweet the pastoral music of the 

kine 
Chiming a thousand bells aloft, to meet 
The herdsman's horn, the young lamb's 

wandering bleat ! 

LXIX 

Under the forest's sombre eaves there 
slept 

Xo darkness, but a balsam-breathing 
shade, 

Rained through with light : the hur- 
rying waters made 

Music amid the solitude, and swept 

Their noise of liquid laughter from 
afar, 

Through smells of sprouting leaf and 
trampled grass, 

And thousand tints of flowery bell and 
star, 

To sing the year's one idyl ere it pass ! 

LXX 

And down the happy valleys wan- 
dered we, 

Released and glad, the children of the 
sun, — 

I by adoption and by nature she, — 



And still our love a riper color won 
From the strong god in whom all 

colors burn. 
The Earth regained her ancient alchemy 
To cheat our souls with dreams of 

what might be, 
And never is, — yet, wherefore these 

unlearn ? 

LXXI 

For they reclothe us with a mantle, lent 
From the bright wardrobe of the 

Gods: the powers, 
The glories of the Possible are ours : 
We breathe the pure, sustaining ele- 
ment 
Above the dust of life, — steal fresh 

content 
From distant gleams of never-gath- 
ered flowers, — 
Believing, rise : our very failures wear 
Immortal grace from what we vainly 
dare ! 

LXXII 

From dreams like these is shaped the 
splendid act 

In painters', poets' brains: we let 
them grow, 

And as the season rolled in richer flow 

To summer, from their waves a won- 
drous fact 

Uprose, and shamed them with diviner 
glow, — 

A tremulous secret, mystic, scarce- 
confessed, 

That, star-like, throbs within the 
coarsest breast, 

And sets God's joy beside His crea- 
ture's woe. 



As one may see, along some April rill, 

By richest mould and softest dew- 
fall fed, 

The daybreak blossom of a daffodil 

Send from its heart a tenderer blos- 
som still, 

Flower bearing flower, so fair a mar- 
vel shed 

Its bliss on Clelia's being ; and she 
smiled 

With those prophetic raptures which 
fulfil 

The mother's nature ere she clasps her 
child. 



206 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



LXXIV 

Between our hearts, embracing both, 

there stole 
A silent Presence, like to that which 

reigns 
In Heaven, when God another world 

ordains. 
Here, in its genesis, a formless soul 
Waited the living garment it should 

wear 
Of holiest flesh, though ours were dark 

with stains, — 
Yet clouds that blot the blue, eternal 

air, 
Upon their folds the rainbow's beauty 

bear! 

LXXV 

And none of all the folk we moved 

among 
In that lone valley, whether man or 

maid, 
Or weary woman, prematurely wrung 
To bear the lusty flock that round her 

played, 
But spake to Clelia in a gentler tongue 
And unto her their timid reverence 

paid, 
As, in her life repeated, one might see 
Madonna's pure maternal sanctity ! 

LXXVI 

All knew the lady, beautiful and tall, — 

Dark, yet so pale in her strange loveli- 
ness, 

Whom oft they saw with gliding foot- 
step press 

The meads, the forest's golden floor; 
and all 

Knew the enchanted voice, whose 
alien song 

Silenced the mountains, till the wood- 
man lone 

His axe let fall, and dreamed and lis- 
tened long, — 

The key -flower plucked, the fairy gold 
his own ! 

LXXVII 

Never, they said, did year its bounty 

shower 
Soplenteously upon their fields, as now. 
The lady brought their fortune : many 

a vow 
Would rise to help her in her woman's 

hour 



Of pain and joy, and what their hands 

could do 
(The will was boundless, though so 

mean the power) 
Was hers, — their queen, the fairest 

thing they knew 
Within the circle of the mountains blue. 

LXXVIII 

And Autumn came, like him from 
Edom, him 

With garments dyed, from Bozrah, 
glorious 

In his apparel ; yet his gold was dim, 

His crimsons pale, beside the splendors 
warm 

Wherewith the ripened time transfig- 
ured us. 

The precious atoms drawn from heaven 
and earth, 

And rocked by Love's own music into 
form, 

Compacted lived: a soul awaited birth. 

LXXIX 

A soul was born. The hazy -mantled 

sun 
Looked in on Clelia, radiant as a saint 
Who triumphs over torture, pale and 

faint 
From parted life, — and kissed the life 

begun 
With tender light, as quick to recog- 
nize 
His child, in exile: the unconscious 

one, — 
Stray lamb of heaven, whom tears 

might best baptize, — 
Closed on her happy breast his mother's 

eyes. 

LXXX 

Her eyes they were: her fresh-born 

beauty took 
Its seat in man, that woman's heart 

might bow 
One day, before the magic of that look 
Which conquered man and held him 

captive now. 
The frail and precious mould which 

drew from me 
Naught but its sex, her likeness did 

endow 
With breathing grace and witching 

symmetry, 
As once in baby demigod might be. 



THE WOMAN 



207 



LXXXI 

So came from him — as in Correggio's 

"Night" 
The body of the Holy Child illumes 
The stable dark, the starry Syrian 

glooms, 
The rapt, adoring faces, — sudden light 
For that dark season when the sun 

hung low ; 
And warmth, when earth again lay 

cold aud white ; 
And peace, Love reconciled with Life 

to know ; 
And promise, kindling Art to rosier 

glow. 

Lxxxn 

Here dawned the inspiration, long de- 
layed, 

The light of loftier fancy. As she 
pressed, 

Cradled against her balmy mother- 
breast, 

The child — a pink on sun-kissed lilies 
laid — 

I saw the type of old achievement won 

In them, the holy hint their forms con- 
veyed : 

And lovelier never God's Elected Maid 

And Goddess-Mother dreamed Urbino's 
son! 

Lxxxin 

But she — when first mine eager hand 
would seize 

Her perfect beauty — troubled grew, 
and pale. 

"Dear Egon, No!" she said: "my 
heart would fail, 

Alarmed for love that wraps in sancti- 
ties 

Its earthly form : for see ! the babe 
may lie 

With white, untainted soul, and in his 
eye 

The light of Heaven, and pure as al- 
mond-flowers 

His dimpling flesh, — but, Egon, he is 
ours ! 

lxxxtv 

" If blessing may be forfeited, to set 
A child, the loveliest, in the place divine 
Of Infant God. it were more impiousyet 
To veil the Mother's countenance in 
mine : 



Ah, how should I, to human love 

though fair, 
Assume her grace and with her pity 

shine, — 
Profane usurpressof her sacred shrine, 
To cheat the vow and intercept the 

prayer ! " 

LXXXV 

A woman's causeless fancy ! What I 

said 
I scarce remember, — that the face I 

stole 
Had brought herself, and if the half 

so wrought, 
A surer blessing now must bring the 

whole, 
And laurel cast, not jasmine, on my 

head. 
The profanation was a thing of 

thought, 
Or touched the artist only : who could 

paint, 
If saint alone dare model be for saint ? 

LXXXVI 

And so, by Art possessed, I would not 

see 
Forebodings which in woman's finer 

sense 
Arise, and draw their own fulfilment 

thence, — 
Light clouds, yet hide the bolts of 

Destiny 
And darken life, erelong. I gave, in 

j°y> 

To fleeting grace immortal perma- 
nence, 

And dreamed of coming fame for all 
the three, 

Myself, the fairest mother, and the boy! 

LXXXVH 

She sat, in crimson robe and mantle blue, 
Fondling the child in holy nakedness, 
Resigned and calm, — alas ! I could 

not guess 
The haunting fear that daily deeper 

grew 
In the sweet face that would its fear 

subdue, 
Nor make my hand's creative rapture 

less: 
But cold her kisses to my own replied, 
And when the work completed 

stood — she sighed. 



208 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



LXXXVIII 

And from that hour a shadow seemed 

to hang 
Around her life : our idyl breathed no 

more 
Its flute-like joy in every strain she 

sang : 
Her step the measures of an anthem 

wore, 
That hushes, soothes, yet makes not 

wholly sad ; 
And if, at times, my heart confessed a 

pang 
To note the haunted gleam her features 

had, 
I failed to read the prophecy it bore. 

LXXXIX 

Again the summer beckoned from the 

hills, 
And back from Daulis came the night- 
ingale ; 
But when the willows shook by 

meadow-rills 
Their sheeted silver, Clelia's cheek 

grew pale. 
She spoke not ; but I knew her fancy 

said : 
So shook the olives now in Arno's 

vale, 
So flashed the brook along its pebbly 

bed, 
Through bosky oleanders, roofed with 

red ! 



This cheer I gave : "Be sure my fame 
awaits 

The work of love : this cloud will 
break, and we 

Walk in the golden airs of Tuscany, 

Guarded by that renown which conse- 
crates 

Our fault, if love be such; and fame 
shall be 

My shield, to shame your father's her- 
aldry, 

And set you in your ancient halls. 
Take heart, 

And as my love you trusted, trust my 
art ! " 

xci 

She faintly smiled, — if smile the lips 

could stir 
Which more of yearning than of hope 

expressed ; 
A filmy mask to hide the warning 

guest 
Of thought which evermore abode in 

her: 
And then she kissed me, — not, as once 

with fire 
And lingering sweetness drawn from 

love's desire, 
But soft, as Heaven's angelic messen- 
ger 
Might touch the lips of prayer, and 

make them blest ! 



BOOK III 



THE CHILD 



Sad Son of Earth, if ever to thy care 
Some god entrust the dazzling gift of 

joy. 

Within thy trembling hands the bur- 
den bear 

As if the frailest crystal shell it 
were, 

One thrill of exultation might destroy ! 

Look to thy feet, take heed where 
thou shalt stand, 

And arm thine eyes with fear, thy 
heart with prayer, 

Like one who travels in a hostile 
land! 



ii 

For, ever hovering in the heart of day 
Unseen, above thee wait the Powers 

malign, 
Who scent thy bliss as vultures scent 

decay : 
Unveil thy secret, give one gladsome 

sign, 
Send up one thought to chant beside 

the lark 
In airy poise, and lo ! the sky is dark 
With swooping wings, — thy gift is 

snatched away 
Ere dies the rapture which proclaimed 

it thine ! 



THE CHILD 



209 



We plan the houses which are never 

built : 
The volumes which our precious 

thoughts enclose 
Are never written : in the falchion's hilt 
Sleeps nobler daring than the hero 

shows: 
And never Fate allows a life to give 
The measure of a soul, — but incom- 
plete 
Expression and imperfect action meet, 
To form the tintless sketch of what we 
live. 



I would not see the path that led apart 
My Clelia's feet, as/t were on hills of 

cloud, 
But deemed the saintlier light, whereto 

I bowed 
In reverence of mine adoring heart, 
The mother's nature : day by day I 

smiled, 
As higher, further drawn, my dreams 

avowed 
Diviner types of beauty, — whence 

beguiled, 
Her robes of heaven I wrapped around 

her child. 



Our daily miracle was he : a bud 
Steeped in the scents of Eden, balmy 

fair, 
The world's pure morning bright upon 

his hair, 
And life's unopened roses in his 

blood ! 
In the blank eyes of birth a timorous 

star 
Of wonder sparkled, as the soul awoke, 
And from his tongue a brook-like 

babbling broke, — 
A strange, melodious language from 

afar! 



His body showed, in every dimpled 
swell, 

The pink and pearl of Ocean's loveli- 
est shell, 

And swift the little pulses throbbed 
along 

Their turquoise paths, the soft breast 
rose and fell 



As to the music of a dancing song, 
And all the 

long 
To babyhood, and breathe from every 

limb, 
Made life more beautiful, revealed in 

him. 



His mother's face I dared not paint 
again, 

For now, infected by her mystic dread, 

The picture smote me with reproach- 
ful pain ; 

But often, bending o'er his cradle-bed 

To learn by heart the wondrous tints 
and lines 

That charmed me so, my kindling 
fancy said : 

"By thee, my Cherub, shall mine art 
be led 

To clasp the Truth it now but half 
divines ! 



"If I have sinned, to set thee in the 

place 
Of Infant God, the hand that here 

offends 
Shall owe its cunning to thy growing 

grace, 
And from thy loveliness make late 

amends. 
Six summers more, and I shall bid 

thee stand 
Before me, with uplift, prophetic face, 
And there St. John shall grow beneath 

my hand, — 
A bright boy-angel in a desert land I 



"Six summers more, and then, as 

Ganymede's, 
Thy rosy limbs against the dark-blue 

sky 
Shall press the eagle's plumage as he 

speeds ; 
Or darling Hylas, 'mid Scamander's 

reeds, 
Borrow thy beauty : six again, and I 
Shall from thy lithesome adolescence 

take 
My young St. George, my victor 

knight, and make 
Beneath thy sword once more the 

Dragon die ! 



2IO 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



" Art thou not mine ? and wilt thou 
not repay 

My love with help unconsciously be- 
stowed ? 

In thy fresh being, in its bright abode, 

Shall I not find rny morning-star, my 
day? 

Rejoice! one life, at least, shall death- 
less be, — 

One perfect form grow ripe, but not 
decay : 

Through mine own blood shall I my 
triumph see, 

And give to glory what I steal from 
thee ! " 

XI 

One day, in indolence of sheer despair, 

I sat with hanging arm, the colors 
dried 

Upon my palette : sudden, at my side 

Knelt Clelia, lifting through her fall- 
ing hair 

A look that stabbed me with its tear- 
ful care ; 

And words that came like swiftly- 
dropping tears 

Made my heart ache and shiver in 
mine ears, 

As thus in sorrow and in love she cried: 

XII 

"O Egon, mine the fault! I should 
have dared 

Defy the compact, — should have set 
you, love, 

As far in station as in soul above 

These mocking wants — mine idle 
fortune shared 

With your achievement ! Coward 
heart, that fled 

The post of righteous battle, and pre- 
pared 

For you, whose hand and brain I 
could not wed, 

Meaning to bless, a martyrdom in- 
stead ! 

XIII 

"I hold you back, alas! when you 

aspire ; 
I chain your spirit when it pants to 

soar : 
I, proud to kindle, glad to feed the 

fire, 



But heap cold ashes on its fading core ! 
Command me, Egon ! shall I seek the 

sire 
Whose lonely house might welcome 

me once more, 
And mine — my twain beloved ? Let 

me make 
This late, last trial for our future's 

sake ! " 

xrv 
"Not thine, my Clelia!" soothing 

her, I said, 
"Not thine the fault — nor ours; 

but Demons wait 
To thwart the shining purposes of 

Fate, 
And not a crown descends on any 

head 
Ere half its fairest leaves are plucked 

or dead : 
Yet be it as thou wilt, — who bore 

thee thence 
Must in thy father's house thee rein- 
state, 
Or bear — not thou — the weight of 

his offence. 

xv 

" Come, thou art pale, and sad, and 
sick for home, 

My summer lilly — nursling of the 
sun ! 

But thou shalt blossom in the breeze 
of Rome, 

And dip thy feet in Baise's whisper- 
ing foam, 

And in the torn Abruzzi valleys, dun 

With August stubble, watch thy wild 
fawn run. — 

I swear it ! With the melting of the 
snow, 

If Fortune or if Ruin guide, we go 1 " 

XVI 

And soon there came, as 't were an 

answering hint 
From heaven, the tardy gold Madonna 

brought, — 
But I unto that end had gladly 

wrought 
Heart's-blood to coin, and drained the 

ruddy mint 
Of life, again the mellow songs to hear 
That told how sunward turned her 

happy thought : 



THE CHILD 



211 



That sang to sleep her soul's unbodied 

fear, 
And led lier through the darkness of 

the year ! 



Alas! 'twas not so written. Day by 
day 

Her cheek grew thin, her footstep 

faint and slow : 
And yet so fondly, with such hopeful 

" p'fry 

Her pulses beat, they masked the 
coming woe. 

Joy dwelt with her, and in her eager 
breath 

His cymbals drowned the hollow drums 
of Death : 

Life showered its promise, surer to be- 
tray. 

And the 'false Future crumbled fast 
away. 

xyiii 
Aye, she was happy ! God be thanked 

for this, 
That she was happy ! — happier than 

she knew, 
Had even the hope that cheated her 

been true ; 
For from her face there beamed such 

wondrous bliss, 
As cannot find fulfilment here, and 

dies. 
God's peace and pardon touched me 

in her kiss, 
Heaven's morning dawned and bright- 
ened in her eyes, 
And o'er the Tuscan arched remoter 

skies! 

XIX 

Dazzled with light, I could not see the 

close 
So near and dark, and every day that 

won 
Some warmer life from the returning 

sun, 
Took from the menaces that interpose 
Between the plan and deed. I dared 

to dream 
Her dreams, and paint them lovelier as 

they rose, 
Till from the echoing hollows one wild 

stream 
Sprang to proclaim the melting of the 

snows. 



XX 

Then — how she smiled! And I the 

casement wide 
To that triumphant sound must throw, 

despite 
The bitter air ; and, soothed and satis- 
fied, 
She slept until the middle watch of 

night. 
I watched beside her : dim the taper's 

light 
Before the corner-shrine, — the walls 

in shade 
Glimmered, but through the window 

all was white 
In crystal moonshine, and the winds 

were laid. 



And awe and shuddering fell upon my 
soul. 

Out of the silence came, if not a sound, 

The sense of sphery music, far, pro- 
found, 

As Earth, revolving on her moveless 
pole, 

Might breathe to God : and at the case- 
ment shone 

Something — a radiant bird it 
seemed, — alone, 

And beautiful, and strange : its plumes 
around 

Played the soft fire of stars whence it 
had flown. 

XXII 

The beak of light, the eye of flame, — 

dispread 
The hovering wings, as winnowing 

music out ; 
And richer still the glory grew about 
The shadowy room, crept over Clelia's 

bed 
And hung, a shimmering circle, round 

her head : 
Then marked I that her eyes were wide 

and clear, 
Nor wondered at the vision. All my 

fear 
Fled when she spoke, and these the 

words she said : 



' ' Thou call'st, and I am ready. Ah, I see 
The shining field of lilies in the moon, 
So white, so fair! Yet how depart 
with thee, 



212 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



And leave the bliss of threefold life so 

soon? 
Peace, fainting heart ! Though sweet 

it were to stay, 
Sweet messenger, thy summons I obey : 
And now the mountains part, and now 

the free 
Wide ocean gleams beneath a golden 

day! 

XXIV 

' ' How still they lie, the olive-sandalled 

slopes, 
The gardens and the towers! But 

floating o'er 
Their shaded sleep, lo! some diviner 

shore, 
Deep down the bright, unmeasured 

distance, opes 
Its breathing valleys : wait for me ! I 

haste, 
But am not free : till morning let me 

taste 
The last regret of faithful love once 

more, 
Then shall I walk with thee yon lilied 

floor!" 

XXV 

The bright Thing fled, the moon went 

down the west. 
Long lay she silent, sleepless; nor 

might I 
Break with a sound the hush of ecstasy, 
The strange, unearthly peace, till from 

his rest 
The child awoke with soft, imploring 

cry : 
Then she, with feeble hands outreach- 

ing, laid 
His little cheek to hers, and softly 

made 
His murmurs cease upon her mother- 
breast. 

XXVI 

My trance dissolved at once, and fall- 
ing prone 

In agony of tears, as falls a wave 

With choked susurrus in some hol- 
low cave, 

Brake forth my life's lament and 
bitter moan. 

I shook with passionate grief : I mur- 
mured : "Stay! 

Have I not sworn to give thee back 
thine own ? 



False was the token, false ! " She 

answered : ' ' 1ST ay, 
It says, Farewell ! and yonder dawns 

the day." 

XXVII 

No more! I said farewell: with- 
drawn afar, 
Still faintly came to me, its clasping 

shore, 
When morning drowned the wintry 

morning-star, 
Her ebbing life; then paused — and 

came no more ! 
And blue the mocking sky, and loud 

the roar 
Of loosened waters, leaping down the 

glen : 
The songs of children and the shouts 

of men 
Flouted the awful Shadow at my 

door! 

XXVIII 

And chill my heart became, a sepul- 
chre 

Sealed with the sudden ice of frozen 
tears : 

I sat in stony calm, and looked at 
her, 

Flown in the brightness of her beau- 
teous years, 

And not a pulse with conscious sor- 
row beat ; 

Nor, when they robed her in her 
winding-sheet, 

Did any pang my silent bosom stir, 

But pain, like bliss, seemed of the 
things that were. 



With cold and changeless face beside 
her grave 

I stood, and coldly heard the shudder- 
ing sound 

Of coffin echoes, smothered under- 
ground : 

The tints I marked, the mournful 
mountains gave, — 

Faces and garments of the throngs 
around, — 

The sexton's knotted hands, the light 
and shade 

That strangely through the moving 
colors played, — 

So, feeling dead, Art's habit held me 
bound ! 



THE CHILD 



213 



Yet, very slowly, Feeling's self was 

born 
Of chance forgetf ulness : when mead- 
ows took 
A greener hem along the winding 

brook, 
And buds were balmy in the fresh 

May-morn, 
Oft would I turn, as though her step 

to wait ; 
Or ask the songless echoes why so late 
Her song delayed ; or from my lonely 

bed 
At midnight start, and weep to find 

her fled ! 

XXXI 

And with the pains of healing came a 

care 
For him, her child: she had not wholly 

died ; 
And what of her lost being he might 

wear 
Was doubly mine through all the 

years untried, 
To love, and give me love. Him 

would I bear 
Beyond the Alps, forth from this fatal 

zone, 
To make his mother's land and speech 

his own, 
And keep her beauty at his father's 

side ! 

XXXII 

So forth we fared : the faithful pea- 
sant nurse 
"Who guarded now his life, should 

guard it still. 
"We hastened on : there seemed a 

brooding curse 
Upon the valley. Many a brawling rill 
"We left behind, and many a darksome 

hill, 
Long fens, and clay-white rivers of 

the plain, 
Then mountains clad in thunder, — 

and again 
Soared the high Alps, and sparkled, 

white and chill. 

XXXIII 

To seek some quiet, southward-open- 
ing vale 
Beside the Adige, was my first design ; 



And sweetly hailed along the Bren- 
ner's line 

With songs of Tyrol, welcomed by 
the gale 

That floated from the musky slopes 
of vine, 

With summer on its wings, I wan- 
dered down 

To fix our home in some delightful 
town, — 

But when the first we reached, there 
came a sign. 

xxxiv 

The bells were tolling, — not with 
nuptial joy, 

But heavily, sadly : down the wind- 
ing street 

The pattering tumult came of chil- 
dren's feet, 

Followed by men who bore a snow- 
pale boy 

Upon a flowery bier. The sunshine 
clung, 

Caressing brow and cheek, — he was 
so young 

Even Nature felt her darling's loss, — 
and sweet 

The burial hymn by childish mourners 
sung. 

XXXV 

"He must not see the dead ! " Thus 

unto me 
The nurse, and muffled him with 

trembling hand. 
But something touched, in that sad 

harmony, 

afant's sc 

was free 
A moment, saw the dead, nor could 

withstand 
The strange desire that hungered in 

his eye, 
And stretched his little arms, and 

made a cry, — 
While she, in foolish terror, turned to 
, me : 

XXXVI 

"Now, God have mercy, master! rest 
not here, 

Or he will die ! " 'T was but the cause- 
less whim 

Of ignorance, and yet, a formless 
fear 



2I 4 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



O'ercame my heart, and darkly men- 
aced him 

As with his mother's fond, foreboding 
dread : 

Then wild with haste to lift the shadow 
dim 

Which seemed already settling round 
his head, 

That hour we left, and ever southward 
sped. 

XXXVII 

Past wondrous mountains, peaked 

with obelisks, 
With pyramids and domes of dolomite 
That burned vermilion in the dying 

light, — 
Crags where the hunter with a thou- 
sand risks 
The steinbok follows, — world of 

strength and song 
Under the stars, among the fields of 

white, 
While deep below, the broad vale 

winds along 
Through corn and wine, secure from 

winter's wrong ! 

XXXVIII 

My plan complete, the foolish servitress 

Back to her dark Bohemian home I 
sent, 

And gave my boy to one whose gentle- 
ness 

Fell gentlier from her Tuscan tongue. 
We went 

By lonely roads, where over Garda's 
lake 

Their brows the cloven-hearted moun- 
tains bent, 

To lands divine, where Como's waters 
make 

Twin arms, to clasp them for their 
beauty's sake ! 

XXXIX 

There ceased my wanderings, finding 

what I sought: 
The charms of water, earth, and air 

allied, — 
Secluded homes, with prospects free 

and wide 
Around a princely world, which 

thither brought 
Only the aspect of its holiday, 
And made i ts emulous, unsleeping pride 



Put on the yoke of Wature, and obey 
Her mood of ornament, her summer 
play. 

XL 

The shapely hills, whose summits tow- 
ered remote 
In rosy air, might smile in soft disdain 
Of palaces that strung a jewelled chain 
About their feet, and far-off, seemed 

to float 
On violet-misted waters ; yet they wore 
Their groves and gardens like a festal 

train, 
And in the mirror of the crystal plain 
Steep vied with steep, shore emulated 
shore ! 



Above Bellagio, on the ridge that leans 
To meet, on either side, the parted 

blue 
There is a cottage, which the olive 

screens 
From sight of those who come the 

pomp to view 
Of Villa Serbelloni : thrust apart 
Beside a quarry whence the pile they 

drew, — 
A home for simple needs and straitened 

means, 
For lonely labor and a brooding heart. 

XLII 

Too young was I, too filled with blood 

and fire, 
To clothe myself with ultimate de- 
spair. 
Drinking with eager breast that idle air, 
Color with eyes new-bathed, that 

could not tire, 
And stung by form, and wooed by 

moving grace, 
And warmed with beauty, should I 

not aspire 
My misty dreams with substance to 

replace, 
Nor ghosts beget, but an immortal 

race? 

XLTII 

Yea! rather close, as in a sainted 

shrine, 
My life's most lovely, tender episode, 
Renounce the ordination it bestowed, 
And only taste its sacramental wine 



THE CHILD 



215 



In those brief Sabbaths, when the 

heart demands 
Solemn repose and sustenance divine ! 
Yet lives the Artist in these restless 

hands, 
And waiting, here, the rich material 

stands ! 



Had I not sought, I asked myself, the 
far 

Result, and haughtily disdained the 
source ? 

From myriad threads hangs many- 
stranded Force, — 

Compact of gloomy atoms, burns the 
star ! 

Of earth are all foundations; and of old 

On mounds of clay were lifted to their 
place 

Shafts of eternal temples. We behold 

The noble end, whereto no means are 
base. 



I loved my work ; and therefore 
vowed to love 

All subjects, finding Art in every- 
thing, — 

The angel's plumage in the bird's plain 
wing, — 

Until such time as I might rise above 

The conquered matter, to the power 
supreme 

Which takes, rejects, adorns, — a 
rightful king, 

Whose hand completes the subtly- 
hinted scheme, 

And blends in equal truth the Fact 
and Dream ! 

XLYT 

And now commenced a second life, 
wherein 

Myself and Agatha and Angelo 

Beheld the lonely seasons come and go, 

Contented, — whether gray with hoar- 
frost thin 

The aloes stiffened, or the passion- 
flower 

Enriched the summer heats, or autumn 
shower 

Rejoiced the yellow fig-leaves wide to 
blow : — 

So still that life, we scarcely felt its 
flow. 



XLVTT 

How guileless, sweet, the infancy he 

knew, 
Loved for his own and for his mother's 

sake! 
How fresh in sunny loveliness he 

grew, 
Fanned by the breezes of the Larian 

lake. 
My little Angelo, my baby-friend, 
My boy, my blessing ! — while for 

him I drew 
A thousand futures, brightening to 

the end ; 
Long paths of light, with ne'er a 

cloudy break ! 

XL VIII 

For, lisping in a sweeter tongue than 

mine, 
'T was his delight around the spot to 

play 
Where fast I wrought in unillusive 

day,— 
Where he might chase from rock or 

rustling vine 
The golden lizard; seek the mellow 

peach, 
Wind-shaken ; or, where spread the 

branchy pine 
His coverture of woven shade and 

shine, 
Sleep, lulled by murmurs of the 

pebbly beach. 

XLIX 

Along San Primo's chestnut- shaded 

sides, 
Through fields of thyme and spiky 

lavender 
And yellow broom, wherein the she- 
goat hides 
Her yeanling kid, and wild bees ever 

stir 
The drifted blossoms, — high and 

breezy downs, — 
I led his steps, and watched his young 

eye glance 
In brightening wonder o'er the fair 

expanse 
Of mountain, lake, and lake-reflected 

towns ! 



Or, crossing to the lofty Leccan shore, 
I bade him see the Fiume-latte leap 



2l6 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



Through shivered rainbows down the 
hollow steep, 

A meteor of the morning ; high and 
hoar 

The Alp that fed it leaned against the 
blue, — 

But siren-voices chanted in the roar, 

Enticing, mocking: shudderingly he 
drew 

Back from the shifting whirls of end- 
less dew. 



'T was otherwise, when borne in dan- 
cing bark 

Across the wave, where Sommariva's 
walls 

Flash from the starred magnolia's 
breathing dark, 

High o'er its terraced roses, fountain- 
falls 

And bosky laurels. In that garden he 

Chirruped and fluttered like a callow 
lark, 

With dim fore-feeling of the azure free, 

Sustaining wing and strength of song- 
ful glee ! 



No thing that I might paint, — a sun- 
set cloud, 

A rosy islet of the amber sky, — 

A lily-branch, — the azure-emerald 
dye 

Of neck and crest that makes the pea- 
cock proud, — 

Or plume of fern, or berried ivy -braid, 

Or sheen of sliding waters, — e'er 
could vie 

With the least loveliness his form 
conveyed 

In outline, motion, daintiest light and 
shade. 



Not yet would I indulge the rapturous 
task, 

The crown of labor ; though my 
weary brain 

Ached from the mimicry of Nature's 
mask, 

And yearned for human themes. It 
was in vain, 

My vow, that patient bondage to sus- 
tain : 

Some unsubdued desire began to ask : 



" How shall these soulless images be 
warmed ? 

Or Life be learned from matter unin- 
formed?" 



''Then Life!" I said: "but cau- 
tiously and slow, — 
Pure human types, that, from the 

common base 
By due degrees the spirit find its 

place, 
And climb to passion and supernal 

glow 
Of Heaven's beatitude. The level 

track 
Once let me tread, nor need to stoop 

so low 
Beneath my dreams, and thus their 

hope efface, — 
But late, in nobler guise, receive them 

back." 

lv 

So, venturing no further, I began 
The work I craved, and only what I 

found 
In limber child, or steely-sinewed man, 
Or supple maiden, drew : within that 

bound 
Such excellence I saw, as told how 

much, 
Despising truth, I strayed : with rev- 
erent touch 
God's architecture did my pencil trace 
In joint and limb, as in the godlike 
face. 

LVI 

Each part expressed its nicely-mea- 
sured share 
In the mysterious being of the whole : 
Not from the eye or lip looked forth 

the soul, 
But made her habitation everywhere 
Within the bounds of flesh ; and Art 

might steal, 
As once, of old, her purest triumphs 

there. 
Go see the headless Ilionfius kneel, 
And thou the torso's agony shalt feel! 



The blameless spirit of a lofty aim 
Sees not a line that asks to be con- 
cealed 



THE CHILD 



217 



By dexterous evasion ; but, revealed 
As truth demands, doth Nature smite 

with shame 
Them, who with artifice of ivy-leaf 
Unsex the splendid loins, or shrink 

the frame 
From life's pure honesty, as shrinks 

a thief, 
While stands a hero ignorant of blame ! 

Lvni 
What joy it was, from dead material 

forms, 
Opaque, one-featured, and unchange- 
able, 
To turn, and track the shifting life 

that warms 
The shape of Man ! — within whose 

texture dwell 
Uncounted lines of beauty, tints un- 

guessed 
On luminous height, in softly -shaded 

dell, 
And myriad postures, moving or at 

rest, — 
All phases fair, and each, in turn, the 

best! 



The rich ideal promise these convey, 
Which in the forms of Earth can 

never live. 
Each plastic soul has yet the power to 

give 
A separate model to its subject clay, 
And finely works its cunning likeness 

out : 
To men a block, to me a statue lay 
In each, distinct in being, draped 

about 
With mystery, touched with Beauty's 

random ray I 



Now Fame approached, when I ex- 
pected least 

Her noisy greeting: 'twas the olden 
tale. 

Half -scornfully I gave ; yet men in- 
creased 

Their golden worth, the more I felt 
them fail, 

My painful counterfeits of lifeless 
things. 

"Behold!" they cried: "this won- 
drous artist brings 



Each leaf and vein of meadow-blos- 
soms pale, 

The agate's streaks, the meal of mothy 
wings ! " 



And truly, o'er a wayside-weed they 
raised 

A sound of marvel, found in lichen- 
rust 

Of ancient stones a glory, stood amazed 

To view a melon, gray with summer 
dust, 

And so these rudimental labors praised, 

The Tempter whispered to my flattered 
ear: 

"Why seek the unattained, — thy 
fame is here ! " 

"Avaunt!" I cried: "in mine own 
soul I trust ! " 

LXII 

A little while, I thought, and I shall 

know 
The stamp and sentence of my des- 
tiny, — 
The fateful crisis, whence my life 

shall be 
A power, a triumph, an immortal 

show, 
A kindling inspiration : or be classed 
(As many a noble brother in the Past) 
Pictor Ignotus : as it happens, so 
Shall turn the fortunes of my Angelo ! 

LXIII 

For in his childish life, expanding now, 
The spirit dawned which must his 

future guide, — 
The little prattler, with his open brow, 
His clear, dark eye, his mouth too 

sweet for pride, 
Too proud for infancy ! ' ' My boy, 

decide," 
I said : ' ' wilt painter be ? or rather 

lord 
Over a marble house, a steed and 

sword ? " 
His visage flashed : he paused not, but 

replied : 

LXIV 

"Give me a marble house, as white 

and tall 
As Sommariva's! Give me horse and 

hound, 



2l8 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



A golden sword, and servants in the 

hall, 
And thou and I he masters over all, 
My father ! " In that hope a joy he 

found, 
And oft in freaks of fancied lordship 

made 
The splendors his : ah, boy 1 thy wish 

betrayed 
The blood that beats to rise, and dare 

not fall. 

LXV 

Did Clelia's spirit yearn, what time 
she bore 

The unborn burden, for her lost 
estate ? 

Home-sick and pining, lorn and deso- 
late 

Except for love, did she, in thought, 
count o'er 

The graceful charms of that luxurious 
nest 

Wherefrom I stole her ? Then was I 
unblest, 

Save he inherited her pilfered fate, 

And trod, for her, Pandolfo's palace- 
floor. 

LXVI 

The current of my dreams, directed 
thus, 

Flowed ever swifter, evermore to him. 

Along the coves where stripling boat- 
men swim 

I watched him oft, like Morn's young 
Genius, 

Dropped from her rose-cloud on the 
silver sand, 

Her rosy breath upon each ivory limb 

Kissed by the clasping waters, green 
and dim, 

And craved the hour when he should 
bless my hand. 

LXVII 

The seasons came and went. In sun 

or frost 
Twinkled the olive, shook the aspen 

bough: 
In winter whiteness shone Legnone's 

brow, 
Or cooled his fiery rocks in skyey 

blue 
When o'er the ruffled lake the breva 

tossed 



The struggling barks: their cups of 
snow and dew 

The dark magnolias held, and purpling 
poured 

The trampled blood from many a vine- 
yard's hoard. 

LXVIII 

Five years had passed, and now the 

time was nigh 
When on the fond result my hand 

must stake 
Its cunning, — when the slowly* 

tutored eye 
Must lend the heart its discipline, to 

make 
Secure the throbbing hope, to which 

elate, 
My long ambition clung : and, with a 



"If foiled," I said, "let silence conse- 
crate 

My noteless name, and hide my ruined 
fate ! " 

LXIX 

It was an autumn morn, when I ad- 
dressed 
Myself unto the work. A violet haze 
Subdued the ardor of the golden days : 
A glassy solitude was Como's breast : 
Far, far away, from out the fading 

maze 
Of mountains, blew the flickering 

sound of bells : 
The earth lay hushed as in a Sabbath 

rest, 
And from the air came voiceless, 
sweet farewells ! 



My choicest colors, on the palette 

spread, 
Provoked the appetite : the canvas 

clear 
Wooed from the easel : o'er his noble 

head 
The faint light fell : his perfect body 

shed 
A sunny whiteness on the atmos- 
phere, — 
All aspects gladsomely invited : yet 
Across my heart there swept a wave 

of dread, — 
The first lines trembled which my 

crayon set. 



THE CHILD 



219 



LXXI 

The background, lightly sketched, 

revealed a wild 
Storm-shadowed sweep of Amnion's 

desert hills, 
Whose naked porphyry no dew-fed 

rills 
Touched with descending green, but 

rent and piled 
As thunder-split : behind them, glim- 
mering low, 
The falling sky disclosed a lurid bar : 
In front, a rocky platform, where, a 

star 
Of lonely life, I meant his form should 

glow, 

LXXII 

The God-selected child, there should 
he stand, 

Alone and rapt, as from the world 
vrithdrawn 

To seek, amid the desolated land, 

His Father's counsel : in one tender 
hand 

A cross of reed, to lightly rest upon, 

The other hand a scrolled phylac- 
tery 

Should, hanging, hold, — as it the 
seed might be 

Wherefrom the living Gospel shall 
expand. 

Lxxin 
A simple theme : why, therefore, 

should my faith 
In mine own skill forsake me ? why 

should seem 
His beauteous presence strangely like 

a dream, — 
His shining form an unsubstantial 

wraith ? 
Was it the mother's warning, thus 

impressed 
To stay my hand, or, working in my 

breast, 
That dim, dread Power, that monitor 

supreme, 
Whose mystic ways and works no 

Scripture saith ? 

LXXTV 

I dropped the brush, and, to assure 

my heart. 
Now vanquished quite, with quick, 

impassioned start 



Caught up the boy, and kissed him 
o'er and o'er, — 

Cheek, bosom, limbs, — and felt his 
pulses beat 

Secure existence, till my dread, dis- 
pelled, 

Became a thing to smile at: then, 
once more 

My hand regained its craft, and fol- 
lowed fleet 

The living lines my filmless eyes be- 
held. 

LXXV 

And won those lines, and tracked 
the subtle play 

Where cold, keen light, without a 
boundary, 

Through warmth, lapsed into shad- 
ow's mystic gray, 

And other light within that shadow 
lay, 

A maze of beauty, — till, outwearied, 
he 

With drooping eyelid stood and tot- 
tering knee ; 

While I, withdrawn to gaze, with 
eager lip 

Murmured my joy in mine own work- 
manship. 

LXXVI 

I clothed his limbs again, and led him 
out 

To welcome sunshine and his glad 
reward, 

A scarlet belt, a tiny, gilded sword, — 

And long our bark, the sleeping shores 
about 

Sped as we willed, that happy after- 
noon : 

And sweet the evening promise (ah ! 
too soon 

It came,) of what the morrow should 
afford, — 

An equal service and an equal boon! 



But on the pier a messenger I found 
From Milan, where the borrowed 

name I bore 
Was known, he said, and more than 

half-renowned, 
And now a bright occasion offered me 
A fairer crown than yet my forehead 

wore, — 



220 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



A range of palace-chambers to adorn 
With sportive frescoes, nymphs of 

Earth and Sea, 
Pursuing Hours, and marches of the 

Morn ! 

LXXVIII 

It steads not now that journey to re- 
peat, 
Which flattered, toyed, but nothing 

sure bestowed. 
When four unrestful days were sped, 

my feet, 
With yearning shod, retraced the 

homeward road, 
With each glad minute nearing our 

retreat, — 
Mine eyes, when far away Bellagio 

showed 
Beyond Tremezzo, straining to explore 
Some speck of welcome on the distant 

shore. 

LXXIX 

Then came the town, the vineyards 

and the hill, 
The cottage : soft the orange sunset 

shone 
Upon its walls, — but everything was 

still, 
So still and strange, my heart might 

well disown 
The startled sense that gazed : the 

door ajar, — 
The chambers vacant, — ashes on the 

stone 
Where lit his torch my shy, protect- 
ing Lar, — 
Dark, empty, lifeless all : I stood alone ! 

LXXX 

As one who in an ancient forest walks 

In awful midnight, when the moon is 
dim, 

And knows not What behind, or near 
him, stalks, 

And fears the rustling leaf, the snap- 
ping limb, 

And cannot cry, and scarce can 
breathe, so great 

The nameless Terror, — thus I sought 
for him, 

Yet feared to find him, lest the dark- 
est fate 

Should touch my life and leave it des- 
olate ! 



LXXXI 

The search was vain: they both had 

disappeared, 
My boy and Agatha, nor missed I 

aught 
Of food, or gold, or pictures. Had 

she sought, 
The nurse, a livelier home, and loved 

or feared 
Too much, to leave him ? Or some 

enemy, 
Fell and * implacable, this ruin 

brought, — 
This thunder-stroke ? No answer 

could I see, 
Nor prop whereon to rest my an- 
guished thought. 

LXXXII 

As casts away a drowning man his 

gold, 
I cast the Artist from my life, and 

forth, 
A Father only, wandered : south or 

north 
I knew not, save the heart within me 

hold 
Love's faithful needle, ever towards 

him drawn, 
Felt and obeyed without the conscious 

will : 
And first, by nestling town and pur- 
ple hill, 
To Garda's lake I swiftly hastened on. 

LXXXIII 

And thence a new, mysterious im- 
pulse led 

My steps along the Adige, day by day, 

To seek that village where we saw 
the dead, — 

A fantasy wherein some madness lay ; 

For years had passed, and he a babe 
so young 

That each impression with its object 
fled: 

Not so with mine, — my roused fore- 
bodings flung 

That scene to light, and there insanely 
clung. 

lxxxiv 

I found the village, but its people knew 
No tidings : wearily awhile I trod 
Among black crosses in the church- 
yard sod, 



THE PICTURE 



221 



But who could guess the boy's ? and 

why pursue 
A sickly fancy ? In that peopled vale 
Death is not rare, alas ! nor burials few, 
And soon the grassy coverlet of God 
Spreads equal green above their ashes 

pale. 



'T was eve : upon a lonely mound I 

sank 
That held no more its votive immor- 
telles, 
And, over-worn and half-despairing, 

drank 
The vesper pity of the distant bells, 
Till sleep or trance descended, and 

my brain 
Forgot its echoes of eternal knells, 
Effaced its ceaseless images of pain, 
And, blank and helpless, knew repose 
again. 

LXXXVI 

I dreamed, — or was it dream? My 

Angelo 
Called somewhere out of distant 

space : I heard, 



Like faint but clearest music, every 

word. 
"Come, father, come! "he said; "it 

shines like snow, 
My house of marble : I 've a speaking 

bird : 
A thousand roses in my garden grow : 
My fountains fall in basins dark as 

wine : 
Come to me, father, — all is yours and 

mine ! " 

Lxxxvn 

And then, one fleeting moment, blew 

aside 
The hovering mist of Sleep, and I 

could trace 
The phantom beauty of his joyous 

face: 
And, whitely glimmering, o'er him I 

espied 
A marble porch of stern Palladian 

grace, — 
Then faded all. The rest my heart 

supplied : 
Pandolfo's palace on my vision broke : 
"I come!" I cried; and with the cry 

awoke. 



BOOK IV 



THE PICTUKE 



As when a traveller, whose journey 

lies 
In some still valley, slowly wanders on 
By brook and meadow, cottage, 

bower, and lawn. — 
Familiar sights, that charm his level 

eyes 
For many a league, until, with late 

surprise 
He starts to find those gentle regions 

gone, 
And through the narrowing dell, 

whose crags enclose 
His path, irresolutely, sadly goes: 

n 
For what may wait beyond, he cannot 

guess, 
A garden or a desert, — in such wise 



I went, in ignorance that mocked the 

guise 
Of hope, and filled me with obscure 

distress. 
Locked in a pass of doubt, whose 

cliffs concealed 
The coming life, the temper of the 

skies, 
I craved the certain day, that soon 

should rise 
Upon a fortunate or fatal field ! 

in 

The House of Life hath many cham- 
bers. He 

Who deems his mansion built, a 
dreamer vain, 

A tottering shell inhabits, and shall see 

The ruthless years hurl down his 
masonry ; 



222 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



While they who plan but as they 

slowly gain, 
Where that which was gives that 

which is to be 
Its form and symbols, build the house 

divine, — 
In life a temple, and in death a shrine. 



And following as the guiding vision 
led, 

With briefest rest, with never-falter- 
ing feet, 

By highways white, through field or 
chattering street 

Or windy gorges of the hills I sped, 

And crossed the level floors of silk and 
wine, 

The slow canals, and, shrunken in 
their bed, 

The sandy rivers, till the welcome line 

Before me rose of Tuscan Apennine. 



The southern slopes, with shout and 
festal song, 

Rejoiced in vintage : as I wandered by, 

Came faun-like figures, purple to the 
thigh 

From foaming vats, and laughing 
women, strong 

To bear their Bacchic loads : then, to- 
wards the town 

Through blended toil and revel hasten- 
ing down, 

I saw the terrace — saw, and checked 
a cry, — 

Whence Clelia flung to me the jasmine 
crown ! 



Alas! how changed from him that 

wreath who wore, — 
The youth all rapture, hope and sense 

uncloyed, 
New-landed on the world's illlumined 

shore, — 
Walked now the man ! My downward 

path before 
There sprang no arch of triumph from 

the void : 
No censers burned : not as a conqueror 
I entered Florence, — no ! a slave, that 

fed 
On one last fragment of the feast I 

spread. 



There stretched the garden- wall : the 

yellow sun 
Above it burnished every cypress 

spire, 
Tipped the tall laurel-clumps with 

points of fire, 
And smote the palace-marbles till they 

won 
The golden gleam of ages. Yet, above 
That mellow splendor stood the beauty 

flown 
Of midnights, when around it blew 

and shone 
The breeze of Passion and the moon of 

Love! 

VIII 

At last — the door! With trembling 
touch I tried 

The latch : it shook : the rusty bolts 
gave way. 

As in a dream the roses I espied. 

Heard as in dreams the fountain's lull- 
ing play. 

There curled the dolphins in the shin- 
ing shower 

And rode the Triton boys : on either 
side 

The turf was diapered with many a 
flower, — 

And darkling drooped our green be- 
trothal bower. 



Scarce had I entered, when there came 

a sound 
Of voices from the pillared portico, — 
And twofold burst a cry, as Angelo, 
Across the paths, with wildly -joyous 

bound 
Sprang to my bosom : while, as one 

astound 
With sense of some unexpiated wrong, 
The nurse entreated: "Bid thy father 

go!" 
But "Stay!" he cried: "where hast 

thou been so long ? " 



" Stay, father! thou shalt paint me as 

thou wilt, 
Each morning, in the silent northern 

hall ; 
But when, so tired, thou seest mine 

eyelids fall, 



THE PICTURE 



223 



Then shall I take my sword with 

golden hilt, 
And call the grooms, and bid them 

saddle straight 
For us the two white horses in the 

stall — " 
Here shrieked the nurse, with face of 

evil fate, 
" Go, Signor, go ! — ah, God! too late 

— too late 1 " 

XI 

His haste dividing, him to clasp I knelt 

'Twixt porch and fountain, blind with 
tearful joy 

As on my breast his beating heart I 
felt, 

And on my mouth the kisses of the boy, 

Wherein his mother's phantom kisses 
poured 

A stream of ancient rapture, love re- 
stored, — 

When, like the lightning ere the stroke 
is dealt, 

Before me flashed the old Marchese's 
sword ! 

XII 

So haggard, sunken-eyed, convulsed 

with wrath 
That paints a devil on the face of age, 
He glared, that, quick to shield my 

child from scath, — 
To fly the menace of unreasoning 

rage, — 
I caught him in my cloak, and dashed 

apart 
The tangled roses of the garden-path : 
Pandolfo — hate such fatal swiftness 

hath — 
Leapt in advance, and thrust to pierce 

my heart ! 

xin 

I saw the flame-like sparkle of the 
blade : 

Heard, sharp and shrill, the nurse's 
fearful cry : 

Warm blood gushed o'er my hands: a 
fluttering sigh 

Came from the childish lips, that 
feebly made 

These words, as prompted by the dark- 
ening eye, 

"Good-night,* my father!" And I 
knew not why 



My boy should sleep, so suddenly and 

so well, — 
But trembling seized me : clasping 

him, I fell. 



Nor loosed my hold, although I dimly 

knew 
Pandolfo' s hand let fall the blade ac- 
curst, 
And he, his race's hoary murderer, 

burst 
The awful stillness that around us 

grew, 
With miserable groans : his prostrate 

head 
Touched mine, as helpless, o'er the 

fading dead, — 
His hands met mine, and both as 

gently nursed 
The limbs, and strove to stay the 

warmth that fled. 



His Past, my Future, in the body 
met, — 

His wrongs, my hopes, — the selfsame 
fatal blow 

Dashed into darkness : blood Lethean 
wet 

My blighted summer, his autumnal 
snow, 

And all of Life did either life forget, 

Except the piteous death between us; 
so, 

Together pressed, involved in half -em- 
brace, 

We hung above the cold, angelic face. 

xvi 

"Her father, why should Heaven di- 
rect thy hand 

Against her child, thy blood, chastis- 
ing thee ? " 

"I loved the boy" — "But couldst 
not pardon me, 

His father?" "Nay, but thou thyself 
hadst banned 

Beyond forgiveness ! " " Even at his 
demand!" 

" Ah, no ! for his sweet sake might all 
things be, 

Except to lose him." "He is lost, — 
and we 

(Thou, too, old man !) are childless in 
the land ! " 



224 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



XVII 

Thus brokenly, scarce knowing what 

we said, 
We clung like drowning men beneath 

the wave, 
That nor can hurt each other, nor can 

save, 
But breast to breast with iron arms 

are wed 
Till Death so leaves them. Us the 

servants led — 
Pale, awe-struck helpers — through 

the palace-door 
And glimmering hall§, to lay on Clelia's 

bed 
The broken lily we together bore. 

XVIII 

God's thunder-stroke his haughty heart 

had bowed: 
It bled with mine among the common 

dust 
Where Rank puts on the sackcloth of 

the crowd, 
And sits in equal woe: his guilt 

avowed, 
And mine, there came a sad, remorse- 
ful trust, 
And while the double midnight 

gathered there 
From sable hangings and the starless 

air, 
We held each other's hands, and wept 

aloud. 



And he confessed, how, after weary 

search 
And many a vain device employed, he 

found 
By chance in Zara, on Dalmatian 

ground, 
As altar-piece within a votive church 
Some shipwrecked Plutus built, — the 

Mother mild 
In whose foreboding face my Clelia 

smiled ; 
And thence, by slow degrees, to 

Como's side 
Had followed home the trail I thought 

to hide. 

xx 

And there had seized me, but the boy 

displayed 
Patrician beauty, and the failing line, 



Now trembling o'er extinction, might 

evade 
Its fate in him. This changed the 

first design, 
And what the sordid nurse for gold 

betrayed 
Or those Art-hucksters chattered, easy 

made 
The rape, whose issue should, with 

even blow, 
Revenge and compensate : but now, 

— ah, woe ! 



The issue had been reached : too dark 

and drear, 
Too tragic, pitiful, and heart -for- 
lorn, 
Could any heart contain it, to be 

borne, — 
And mine refused, rebelled. Behind 

his bier 
No meek-eyed Resignation walked, or 

Grief 
That catches sunshine in each falling 

tear 
To build her pious rainbow : but with 

scorn 
I thrust aside the truths that bring 

relief. 

XXII 

I spurned, though kindly, — for the 
old man's frame 

Stumbled in Death's advancing twi- 
light, — all 

His offers : gold — the proud Pan- 
dolf an hall — 

Place, that should goad the lagging 
feet of Fame — 

And from his sombre palace, shudder- 
ing still, 

Cold with remembered horror, took 
my name, 

My own, restored ; and climbed the 
northern hill 

As one who lives, though dead his 
living will. 

XXIII 

Some habit, working in my passive 

feet, 
Its guidance gave : the mornings came 

and went: 
Around me spread the fields, or closed 

the street, 



THE PICTURE 



225 



And often, Night's expanded firma- 
ment 

Opened above the lesser dome of Day, 

And wild, tumultuous tongues of 
darkness sent 

To vex my path, — till, in our old 
retreat, 

I ceased to hold my reckless heart at 
bay! 

XXIV 

Some natures are there, fashioned ere 
their birth 

For sun, and spring-time, and the bliss 
of earth; 

Who only sing, achieve, and triumph, 
when 

The Hours caress, and each bright cir- 
cumstance 

Leaps to its place, as in a starry 
dance, 

To shape their story. These the fortu- 
nate men, 

When Fate consents, whose lives are 
ever young, 

And shine around whate'er they 
wrought or sung ! 



Akin to these am I, — or deemed it so, 

And thus beyond my present wreck 
beheld 

No far-off rescue. All my mind, im- 
pelled 

By some blind wrath that would re- 
sent the blow, 

Though impotent, caught action from 
despair, 

And reached, and groped, — as when 
a man lets go 

A jewel in the dark, and seeks it where 

The furzes prick him and the brambles 
tear. 

XXVI 

The clash of inconsistent qualities 
No labor stayed, or beauteous passion 

smoothed. 
But each let loose, and grasping, by 

degrees, 
Stole sway, made chaos. Turbulent, 

unsoothed 
By either's rule, — since order failed 

therein, 
And hope, the tidal star of restless 

seas, — 



I turned from every height, once fair 
to win, 

And sinned 'gainst Art the one un- 
pardoned sin ! 

XXVII 

For thus I reasoned : what avail my 
gifts, 

Which but attract, provoke the spoil- 
ing Fate ? — 

Nor for themselves their destinies 
create, 

But task my life ; and then the thun- 
der rifts 

Their laid foundations ! Why of finer 
nerve 

The members doomed to bear more 
cruel weight ? 

Or daintier senses, if they only serve 

To double pangs, already doubly 
great ? 

XXVIII 

Lo ! yonder hind, on whom doth Life 
impose 

So slight a burden, finds his path pre- 
pared ; 

Unthinking fares as all his fathers 
fared, 

And cheap-won joys and soon-subsid- 
ing woes 

Nor cleave his heart too deep, nor 
lift too high. 

Peaceful as dew -mist from an evening 
sky 

The years descend, until they bid him 
close 

Upon an easy world a quiet eye ! 

XXIX 

He sees the shell of Earth — no more : 

yet more 
Were useless, — attributes of thankful 

toil; 
The olive orchards, dark with ripen- 
ing oil ; 
The misty grapes, the harvests, 

tawny -hoar ; 
The glossy melons, swelling from the 

vine ; 
The breezy lake, alive with darting 

spoil ; 
And dances woo from yonder purple 

shore, 
And yonder Alps but cool his summer 

wine ! 



226 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



XXX 

He lives the common life of Earth : 
she grants 

Result to instinct, food to appetite : 

With no repressed desire his bosom 
pants, 

Nor that self-torturing, questioning 
inward sight 

Vexes his light, unconscious con- 
sciousness. 

He loves, and multiplies his life, — no 
less 

His virile pride and fatherly delight ; 

And all that smites me, visits him to 
bless. 

XXXI 

If this the law, that narrower powers 

enjoy 
Their use, denied the greater, — nay, 

are nursed 
And helped, while these their energies 

destroy 
In baffled aspirations, crossed and 

cursed 
By what with brightening promise 

lured them on, — 
Then life is false, its purposes re- 
versed, 
Its luck for those who leave its veils 

undrawn, 
And Art the mocking glory of its 

dawn ! 

XXXII 

Not calmly, as my memory now re- 
calls 

The crisis, — fierce, vehemently, I 
tracked 

The fatal truth through every potent 
fact 

Of being : now in fancied carnivals 

Of sense abiding, now with gloomy 
face 

Fronting the deeper question that ap- 
palls, 

Of ' * Wherefore Life ? and what this 
brawling race, 

Peopling a mote of dust in endless 
space ? " 

xxxin 

"O fools! " I cried, "O fools, a thou- 
sand-fold 

Tormented with your folly, seeking 
good 



Where Good is not, nor Evil ! — words 
that hold 

Your natures captive, making ye the 
food 

And spoil of them that dare, with 
vision bold, 

See Nothingness ! — slaves of trans- 
mitted fear, 

Of Power imagined, never understood, 

The Demon rules you still that set you 
here ! " 

xxxrv 

The curse I would have broken bound 

me still. 
As flowery chains aforetime, fetters 

now 
Of tyrant Art subdued my wandering 

will, 
And made its youthful, glad, sponta- 
neous vow 
An iron law, whence there was no 

escape. 
No rest, though hopeless, would my 

brain allow, 
But drew the pictures of its haunting 

ill, 
And gave its reckless fancies hue and 

shape. 

XXXV 

So, after many days, the cobwebbed 

door 
Gave sullen entrance : naught was 

there displaced; 
And first I turned, with pangs and 

shuddering haste, 
My young St. John, — I would not 

see it more. 
Then snatched an empty canvas from 

the floor 
And drew a devil : therein did I taste 
Fierce joys of liberty, for what I 

would 
I would, — Art was itself a Devilhood ! 

xxxvi 

This guilty joy, the holiest to de- 



To use the cunning, born of pious toil, 
The purest features of my dreams to 

soil, 
And drag in ribaldry the pencil's 

grace, — 
Grew by indulgence. Forms and 

groups unclean- 



THE PICTURE 



227 



Or mocking, faster than my hand 
could trace 

Their vivid, branding features, thrust 
a screen 

My restless woe and dead desire be- 
tween. 

XXXVII 

Sometimes, perchance, a grim, sarcas- 
tic freak 

My pencil guided, and I stiffly drew 

Byzantine saints, of flat, insipid 
cheek 

And monstrous eye ; or some Madonna 
meek, 

With dwarfish mouth, like those of 
Cimabue ; 

Or martyr-figures, less of flesh than 
bone, 

Lean hands, and lips forever making 
moan, — 

A travesty of woe, distorted, weak. 

XXXVIII 

Or, higher ranging, touched the field 
that charms 

Monastic painters, who, in vision warm 

The Mystery grasp, and wondrous 
frescoes form 

"Where God the Father, with wide- 
spreading arms, 

Rides on the whirlwind which His 
breath has made, 

Or sows His j udgments, Earth in dark- 
ness laid 

Beneath Him, — works which only not 
blaspheme, 

Because the faith that wrought them 
was supreme. 

xxxix 

Thus habit grew, imagination stalked 

In shameless hardihood from things 
profane 

To sacred : nothing hindered, awed, or 
baulked 

The appetite diseased, and such a 
plan 

I sketched, as never since the world 
began — 

So strange and mad — engendered any 
brain. 

Once entertained, the lovely-loath- 
some guest 

Clung to my fancy and my hand pos- 
sessed. 



Not broad the canvas, but the shapes 

it showed, 
With utmost art defined, might almost 

seem 
To grow and spread, dilating with the 

theme. 
Filling the space, a lurid ocean glowed 
In endless billows, tipped with foam of 

fire, 
Shoreless : but far more dreadful than 

a dream 
Of Hell, the shapes which in that sea 

abode, 
With sting and fang, and scaly coil 

and spire ! 



One with a lizard's sinuous motion 

slipped 
Forth from the dun recesses of the 

wave, 
Man-eyed and browed, but tusked and 

lipped 
Like river-horse: its claws another 

drave 
Within a ghastly head, whose dim 

eyes gave 
Slow tears of blood : and with a burn- 
ing tongue 
In brazen jaws out-thrust, another 

stripped 
From floating bones the flesh that 

round them clung ! 



And inthemidst, suspended from above 

Just o'er the blazing foam, in light in- 
tense, 

A naked youth — a form of strength 
and love 

And beauty, perfect as the artist's sense 

Dreams of a god ; and every glorious 
limb 

Burned in a glow that made those bil- 
lows dim. 

A weird and awful brilliance, coming 
whence 

]So eye might fathom, dashed alone on 
him! 

XLIII 

Let down from Somewhere by a mighty 
chain 

Linked round his middle, lightly, gra- 
ciously 



228 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



He swung, and all his body seemed to 

be 
Compact of molten metal, such a stain 
Of angry scarlet streamed and shot 

around : 
The face convulsed, yet whether so 

with pain 
Or awful joy, no gazers might agree, 
And damp the crispy gold his brows 

that crowned. 

XLIV 

And, as he swung, all hybrid monsters 

near, 
Dark dragon-leech, huge vermin hu- 
man-faced, 
Their green eyes turned on him with 

hideous leer, 
Or stretched abhorrent tentacles, to 

taste 
His falling ripeness. Through the 

picture spread 
A sense of tumult, hinting to the ear 
The snap and crackle of those waters 

red, 
And hiss, and howl, and bestial noises 

dread. 

XLV 

Unweariedly I wrought, — each grim 
detail 

As patient-perfect, as from Denner's 
brush, 

Of hair, or mouldy hide, or pliant mail, 

Or limbs, slow-parting, as the grinders 
crush 

Their quivering fibres : good the work- 
manship, 

Yet something unimagined seemed to 
fail, — 

A crowning Horror, in whose iron grip 

The heart should stifle, bloodless be 
the lip. 



This to invent, with hot, unresting 

mind 
I labored : early sat and late, possessed 
With evil images, with wicked zest 
To wreak my mood, though it might 

curse my kind, 
On Evil's purest type, and horridest; 
And never young ambition heretofore 
In noble service so itself outwore. 
What thus we seek, or soon or late we 

find. 



XL VII 

One morn of winter, when unmelted 

frost, 
Beneath a low -hung vault of moveless 

cloud, 
Silvered the world, even while my 

head was bowed 
In half -despair, my brain the Horror 

crossed, 
Unheralded ; and never human will 
Achieved such fearful triumph ! 

Never came 
The form of that which language can- 
not name, 
So armed the life of souls to crush and 

kill! 



And this be never unto men revealed, 
To curse by mere existence! Know- 
ledge taints, 
Drawn from such crypts, the whitest 

robes of saints ; 
Though faith be firm, and warrior- 
virtue steeled 
Against assault, the Possible breaks in 
Their borders, and the soul that can- 
not yield 
Must needs receive the images it paints, 
And shudder, sinless, in the air of Sin ! 

XLIX 

My blood runs chill, remembering 

now the laugh 
Wherewith, enlightened, I the pencil 

seized, — 
Half deadly-smitten, fascinated half, 
Yet sworn to do the dreadful thing I 

pleased ! 
All things upheld my mood with evil 

guise : 
The palette-colors, to my sense dis- 
eased, 
Winked wickedly, like devils' slimy 

eyes, 
And darkness closed me from the 

drooping skies ! 



As when a harp-string in a silent room 

At midnight snaps, with weird, melo- 
dious twang, 

So suddenly, through inner, outer 
gloom 

A sweet, sharp sound, vibrating 
slowly, rang 



THE PICTURE 

music ; while 



And sank to huminin 
a stream 

Of gathering odor followed, as in 
dream 

"We braid the bliss of music and per- 
fume, — 

And pierced, I sat, with some divinest 
pang. 

LI 

And, as from sound and fragrance 

born, a glow 
All rosy-golden, fair as Alpine snow 
At sunset, grew, — mist-like at first, 

and dim, 
But brightening, folding inwards, fold 

on fold, 
Until my ravished vision could behold 
Complete, each line of sunny-shining 

limb 
And sainted head, soft-posed as I had 

drawn 
My boy — my Angelo — my young 

St. John ! 

LII 

O beauteous ghost ! O sacred loveli- 
ness! 

Unworthy I to look upon thy face, 

Unworthy thy transfigured form to 
trace, 

That stood, expectant, waiting but to 
bless 

By miracle, where I intended crime ! 

The folded scroll, the shadowy cross 
of reed 

He bore, — St. John, but not of mortal 
seed : 

So God beheld him, in that early time ! 

LIII 

Dew came to burning eyes : a hea- 
venly rain, 
A balmy deluge, bathed my arid 

heart, 
And washed that hateful fabric of the 

brain 
To rot, a ruin, in some Hell of Art. 
A sweet, unquestioning, obedient 

mood 
Made swift revulsion from the broken 

strain 
Of my revolt ; and still the Phantom 

wooed, 
As bright, and wonderful, and mute, 

it stood. 



229 



trem- 



Yet I, through all dissolving 

bling deeps 
Of consciousness, his angel-errand 

knew. 
The guilty picture fell, and forth I drew 
My dim St. John from out the dusty 

heaps, 
And cleansed it first,, and kissed in 

reverence 
The shadowy lips, — fresh colors took, 

and true, 
And painted, while on each awakened 

sense 
The awful beauty of the Phantom 

grew. 

LV 

All hoarded craft, all purposes and 

powers 
Together worked : the scattered 

gleams of thought 
As through a glass my heart together 

brought 
To light my hand : the chariots of the 

Hours 
For me were stayed : I knew not 

Earth nor Time, 
But painted nimbly in a trance sub- 
lime, 
And tint by tint my charmed pencil 

caught, 
And line byline, the loveliness it sought. 



Mine eyes were purged from film : I 

saw and fixed 
The subtle secrets, not with old despair 
But with undoubting faith my colors 

mixed, 
And with unfaltering hand the breeze- 
blown hair, 
The dark, unfathomed eyes, the lips 

of youth, 
The dainty, fleeting grace that stands 

betwixt 
The babe and child, in members pure 

and bare, 
Portrayed, with joy that owned my 

pencil's truth. 

LVII 

And he, my heavenly model ! how he 

shone, 
Unwearied, silent, — drawn, a golden 

form, 



230 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



Against the background of a sky of 
storm, 

On Amnion's desert hills ! The land- 
scape lone 

Through all its savage slopes and 
gorges smiled, 

Him to enframe, the God -selected 
child, 

And o'er the shadowy distance fell a 
gleam 

That touched with promised peace its 
barren dream. 

LYIII 

At last, the saffron clearness of the 

west, 
From under clouds, shot forth elegiac 

ray 
That sang the burial of the wondrous 

day: 
And sad, mysterious music in my 

breast, 
As at the coming, now the close ex- 
pressed. 
Ah, God ! I dared not watch him 

float away, 
But, seized and shaken by the fading 

spell, 
And covering up my face, exhausted 

fell. 

LTX 

There, when my beating heart no 

longer shook 
The sense that listened, though that 

music died, 
A solemn Presence lingered at my 

side ; 
And drop by drop, as forms an infant 

brook 
Within a woodland hollow, soft, un- 
heard, 
And out of nothing braids its slender 

tide, 
The sense of speech the living silence 

stirred 
And wordless sound became melodious 

word ! 



"O weak of will !" (so spake what 

seemed a voice) 
"And slave of sense, that, hovering 

in extremes, 
Dost oversoar, and undermine thy 

dreams, 



Behold the lowest, highest ! Make thy 
choice, — 

Lord of the vile or servant of the 
pure : 

Be free, range all that is, if better 
seems 

Freedom to smite thyself, than to en- 
dure 

The pain that worketh thine immortal 
cure ! 

LXI 

"Lo! never any living brain knew 
peace, 

That saw not, rooted in the scheme 
of things, 

Assailing and protecting Evil ! Cease 

To beat this steadfast law with bleed- 
ing wings, 

For know, that never any living 
brain, 

Which rested not within its ordered 
plane, 

Restrung the harp of life with sweeter 
strings, 

Or made new melodies, except of pain ! 

LXII 

"Where wast thou, when the world's 

foundations first 
Were laid ? Didst thou the azure 

tent unfold ? 
Or bid the young May -morning's car 

of gold 
Herald the seasons ? Wouldst thou 

see reversed 
The sacred order ? Why, if life be 

cursed, 
Add to its curses thy rebellion bold ? 
Or has thy finer wisdom only yearned 
For thankless gifts and recompense 

unearned ? 

LXIII 

"Come, thou hast questioned God: I 
question thee. 

And truly thou art smitten, — yet re- 
press 

Thine old impatience : calm the eyes 
that see 

How blows give strength, and sharpest 
sorrows bless. 

Free art thou : is thy liberty so 
fair 

To hide the ghost of vanished happi- 
ness, 



THE PICTURE 



231 



And sleep'st thou sweeter under skies, 

so bare 
These thunder-strokes were welcome 

to its air ? 

LXIV 

1 ' Whv is thy life so sorely smitten ? 

Wait, 
And thou shalt learn! Dead stones 

thy teachers were : 
Through years of toil thy hand did 

minister 
To joyous Art : thou wast content with 

Fate. 
Take now thy ruined passion, fix its 

date, 
Peruse its growth, and, if thou canst 

replan 
The blended facts of Life that made 

thee man ; — 
Could aught be spared, or changed 

for other state ? 

LXV 

" Not less thy breathing bliss than 

yonder hind 
Thou enviest, but more : therein it lies, 
That each experience brings a twin 

surprise, 
As mirrored in the glad, creative mind, 
And in the beating heart. Behold ! 

he bows 
To adverse circumstance, to change 

and death ; 
But thou wouldst place thy fortune 

his beneath, 
Shaming the double glory on thy 

brows ! 

LXVI 

"His pangs outworn, perchance some 
feeling lives 

For those of others : thine the lordly 
power 

Transmuting all that loss or suffering 
gives 

To Beauty ! Even thy most despair- 
ing hour x 

Some darker grace informs, and like 
a bee 

Thine Art sits hoarding in thy Pas- 
sion's flower : 

So vast thy need, no phase thine eye 
can see 

Of Earth or Life, that not enriches 
thee ! 



LXVII 

"Such is the Artist, — drawing pre- 
cious use 

From every fate, and so by laws divine 

Encompassed, that in glad obedience 
shine 

His works the fairer : his the flag of 
truce 

Between the warring worlds of soul 
and sense : 

By neither mastered, holding both 
apart, 

Or blending in a newer excellence, 

He weds the haughty brain and 
yearning heart. 

LXVIII 

"Beneath tempestuous, shifting 

movement laid, 
The base of steadfast Order he beholds, 
And from the central vortex, unafraid, 
Marks how all action evermore unfolds 
Forth from a point of absolute repose, 
Which hints of God ; and how, in 

gleams betrayed, 
The Perfect even in imperfection 

shows, — 
And Earth a bud, but breathing of 

the rose ! " 

LXIX 

Even as the last stroke of a Sabbath 
bell, 

Heard in the Sabbath silence of a dell, 

Sounds on and on, with fainter, thin- 
ner note, 

Distincter ever, till its dying swell 

Draws after it the listener's ear, to 
float 

Farther and farther into skies re- 
mote, — 

So, when what seemed a voice had 
ceased, the strain 

Drew after it the waiting, listening 
brain. 

LXX 

And, following far, my senses on the 
track 

Slid into darkness. Dead to life, I lay 

Plunged in oblivious slumber, still 
and black, 

All through the night and deep into 
the day : 

Yet was it sleep, not trance, — restor- 
ing Sleep, 



232 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



That from the restless soul its house 

of clay 
Protects , and when I woke, her dew 

so deep 
Had drenched, the wondrous Past 

was washed away. 

LXXI 

But there, before me, its recorded gift 

Flashed from the easel, so divinely 
bright 

It shamed the morning : then, return- 
ing swift, 

The wave of Memory rolled, and pure 
delight 

Filled mine awakening spirit, and I 
wept 

With contrite heart, redeemed, en- 
franchised quite: 

My sick revolt was healed, — the 
Demon slept, 

And God was good, and Earth her 
promise kept. 

LXXII 

I wandered forth ; and lo ! the halcyon 

world 
Of sleeping wave, and velvet-folded 

hill, 
And stainless air and sunshine, lay so 

still ! 
No mote of vapor on the mountains 

curled ; 
But lucid, gem-like, blissful, as if sin 
Or more than gentlest grief had never 

been, 
Each lovely thing, of tint that shone 

impearled, 
As dwelt some dim beatitude therein ! 

LXXIII 

There, as I stood, the contadini came 
With anxious, kindly faces, seeking 

me ; 
And caught my hands, and called me 

by my name, 
As one from danger snatched might 

welcomed be. 
Such had they feared, their gentle 

greeting told, — 
Seeing the cottage shut, the chimney 

free 
Of that blue household breath, whose 

rings, unrolled, 
The sign of home, the life of land- 
scape, hold. 



LXXIV 

So God's benignant hand directing 

wrought, 
And Man and Nature took me back to 

life. 
My cry was hushed: the forms of 

child and wife 
Smiled from a solemn, moonlit land 

of thought, 
A realm of peaceful sadness. Sad, 

yet strong, 
My soul stood up, threw off its robes 

of strife, 
And quired anew the world-old human 

song, — 
Accepting patience and forgetting 

wrong ! 

LXXV 

Erelong, my living joy in Art re- 
turned, 

But reverently felt, and purified 

By recognition of the bounty spurned, 

And meek acceptance in the place of 
pride. 

Yet nevermore should brush of mine 
be drawn 

O'er the unfinished picture of St. 
John : 

What from the lovely miracle I 
learned, 

The lines of colder toil should never 
hide. 

LXXVI 

Though incomplete, it gave the pro- 
phecy 

Of far-off power, whereto my patient 
mind 

Must set its purpose, — saying unto 
me : 

"Make sure the gift, the fleeting for- 
tune bind, — 

What once a moment was, may ever 
be!" 

And when, in time, this hope securer 
grew, 

Unto the picture, whence my truth I 
drew, 

A sacred dedication I assigned. 

LXXVTI 

Pandolfo dead, the body of my child 
Upon his mother's lonely breast I laid, 
A late return; and o'er their ashes 
made 



THE PICTURE 



233 



A chapel, in the green Bohemian wild, 
For weary toil, pure thought, and 

silent prayer. — 
A simple shrine, of all adornment bare, 
Save o'er the altar, where, completed 

now, 
St. John looks down, with Heaven 

upon his brow ! 

LXXVIII 

The Past accepts no sacrifice : its gates 

Alike atonement and revenge out- 
bar. 

We take its color, yet our spirits are 

Thrust forward by a power which 
antedates 

Their own : the hand of Art out- 
reaches Fate's, 

And lifts the bright, unrisen, re- 
fracted star 

Above our dark horizon, showing 
thus 

A future to the faith that fades in 
us. 

LXXIX 

Not with that vanity of shallow minds 
Which apes the speech, and shames 

the noble truth 
Of them whose pride is knowledge, — 

nor of Youth 
The dazzling, dear mirage, that never 

finds 
Itself o'ertaken, — but with trust in 

fame, 
As knowing fame, and owning now 

the pure 
And humble will which makes 

achievement sure, 
I, Egon, here the Artist's title claim ! 

LXXX 

The forms of Earth, the masks of 
Life, I see, 

Yet see wherein they fail : with eager 
eyes 

I hunt the wandering gleams of har- 
mony, 

The rarer apparitions which surprise 

With hints of Beauty, fixing these 
alone 

In wedded grace of form and tint and 
tone, 

That so the thing, transfigured, shall 
arise 

Beyond itself, and truly live in me. 



LXXXI 

And I shall paint, discerning where 
the line 

Wavers between the Human and Di- 
vine, — 

Nor to the Real in servile bondage 
bound, 

Nor scorning it : nor with supernal 
themes 

Feeding the moods of o'er-aspiring 
dreams, 

(For mortal triumph is a god un- 
crowned,) — 

But by Proportion ruled, and by Re- 
pose, 

And by the Soul supreme whence 
they arose. 

Lxxxn 

Not clamoring for over-human bliss, 
Yet now no more unhappy, — not 

elate 
As one exalted o'er the level state 
Of these ungifted lives, yet strong in 

this, 
That I the sharpest stab and sweetest 

kiss 
Have tasted, suffered, — I can stand 

and wait, 
Serene in knowledge, in obedience 

free, 
The only master of my destiny ! 

Lxxxni 

And thus as in a clear, revealing noon 

I live. So comes, sometimes, a moun- 
tain day : 

A vague, uncertain, misty morn, and 
soon 

Sharp-smiting sun, and winds' and 
lightning's play, — 

A drear confusion, by the final crash 

Dispersed, and ere meridian blown 
away ; 

And all the peaks shine bare, the wa- 
ters flash, 

And Earth lies open to the golden ray ! 

LXXXIV 

Lonely, perchance, but as these dark- 
browed hills 

Are lonely, belted round with broader 
spheres 

Of bluer world, my life its peace fulfils 

In poise of soul : the long, laborious 
years 



234 



THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN 



Await me: closed my holy task, I 

go 
To reaccept, beyond the Alpine snow, 
The gage of glorious battle with my 

peers, — 
Not each of each, but of false art, the 

foe. 

LXXXV 

Once more, O lovely, piteous, shaping 
Past, 

I kiss thy lips : now let thy face be 
hid, 

And this green turf above thy coffin- 
lid 

Be turned to violets ! The forests 
cast 

Their shadowy arms across the quiet 
vale, 

And all sweet sounds the coming rest 
foretell, 



And earth takes glory as the sky grows 
pale, 

So fond and beautiful the Day's fare- 
well! 

LXXXVI 

Farewell, then, thou embosomed isle 

of peace 
In restless waters ! Let the years in- 
crease 
With unexpected blessing : thou shalt 

lie 
As in her crystal shell the maiden lay, 
Watched o'er by weeping dwarfs, — ■ 

too fair to die, 
Yet charmed from life : and there may 

come a day 
Which crowns Desire with gift, and 

Art with truth, 
And Love with bliss, and Life with 

wiser youth 1 



HOME BALLADS 



HOME BALLADS 

THE QUAKER WIDOW 



Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah, — come in ! 'T is kind of thee 
To wait until the Friends were gone, who came to comfort me. 
The still and quiet company a peace may give, indeed, 
But blessed is the single heart that comes to us at need. 



Come, sit thee down! Here is the bench where Benjamin would sit 
On First-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows flit : 
He loved to* smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant bees 
Go humming round the lilacs and through the apple-trees. 



I think he loved the spring : not that he cared for flowers : most men 
Think such things foolishness, — but we were first acquainted then, 
One spring : the next he spoke his mind ; the third I was his wife, 
And in the spring (it happened so) our children entered life. 

rv 
He was but seventy-five: I did not think to lay him yet 
In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly Meeting first we met. 
The Father's mercy shows in this : 'tis better I should be 
Picked out to bear the heavy cross — alone in age — than he. 



We 've lived together fifty years : it seems but one long day, 
One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was called away ; 
And as we bring from Meeting-time a sweet contentment home, 
So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the days to come. 

VT 

I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was to know 
If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I should go ; 
For father had a deep concern upon his mind that day, 
But mother spoke for Benjamin, — she knew what best to say. 

in 
Then she was still : they sat awhile : at last she spoke again, 
The Lord incline thee to the right ! " and "Thou shalt have him, Jane! 
My father said. I cried. Indeed, 'twas not the least of shocks, 
For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Orthodox. 



I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter Ruth we lost : 
Her husband 's of the world, and yet I could not see her crossed. 



238 HOME BALLADS 

She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she hears a hireling priest ■ 
Ah, dear! the cross was ours: her life 's a happy one, at least. 

rx 

Perhaps she '11 wear a plainer dress when she 's as old as I, — 
Would thee believe it, Hannah? once J felt temptation nigh! 
My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple for my taste: 
I wanted lace around the neck, and a ribbon at the waist. 



How strange it seemed to sit with him upon the women's side ! 
I did not dare to lift my eyes : I felt more fear than pride, 
Till, " in the presence of the Lord," he said, and then there came 
A holy strength upon my heart, and I could say the same. 

XI 

I used to blush when he came near, but then I showed no sign ; 
With all the meeting looking on, I held his hand in mine. 
It seemed my bashf ulness was gone, now I was his for life : 
Thee knows the feeling, Hannah, — thee, too, hast been a wife. 

xn 
As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so green as ours ; 
The woods were coming into leaf, the meadows full of flowers ; 
The neighbors met us in the lane, and every face was kind, — 
'T is strange how lively everything comes back upon my mind. 

XIII 

I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding-dinner spread : 

At our own table we were guests, with father at the head, 

And Dinah Passmore helped us both, — 't was she stood up with me, 

And Abner Jones with Benjamin, — and now they 're gone, all three! 

XIV 

It is not right to wish for death ; the Lord disposes best. 
His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them for His rest; 
And that He halved our little flock was merciful, I see : 
For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two are left with me. 

xv 

Eusebius never cared to farm, — 't was not his call, in truth, 
And I must rent the dear old place, and go to daughter Ruth. 
Thee '11 say her ways are not like mine, — young people now-a-days 
Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the good old ways. 

XVI 

But Ruth is still a Friend at heart ; she keeps the simple tongue, 
The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when she was young ; 
And it was brought upon my mind, remembering her, of late, 
That we on dress and outward things perhaps lay too much weight. 

XVII 

I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a spirit clothed with grace, 
And pure, almost, as angels are, may have a homely face. 
And dress may be of less account : the Lord will look within: 
The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or sin. 



THE HOLLY-TREE 239 

XVIII 

Thee must n't be too hard on Ruth : she 's anxious I should go, 
And she will do her duty as a daughter should, I know. 
'T is hard to change so late in life, but we must be resigned : 
The Lord looks down contentedly upon a willing mind. 

I860. 



THE HOLLY-TREE 

1 
The corn was warm in the ground, the fences were mended and made, 
And the garden-beds, as smooth as a counterpane is laid, 
Were dotted and striped with green where the peas and radishes grew, 
"With elecampane at the foot, and comfrey, and sage, and rue. 



The work was done on the farm, 't was orderly everywhere, 
And comfort smiled from the earth, and rest was felt in the air. 
When a Saturday afternoon at such a time comes round, 
The farmer's fancies grow, as grows the grain in his ground. 



'T was so with Gabriel Parke : he stood by the holly-tree 
That came, in the time of Penn, with his fathers over the sea : 
A hundred and eighty years it had grown where it first was set, 
And the thorny leaves were thick and the trunk was sturdy yet. 



From the knoll where stood the house the fair fields pleasantly rolled 
To dells where the laurels hung, and meadows of buttercup gold: 
He looked on them all by turns, with joy in his acres free, 
But ever his thoughts came back to the tale of the holly-tree. 



In beautiful Warwickshire, beside the Avon stream, 
John Parke, in his English home, had dreamed a singular dream. 
He went with a sorrowful heart, for love of a bashful maid, 
And a vision came as he slept one day in a holly's shade. 

VI 

An angel sat in the boughs, and showed him a goodly land, 
With hills that fell to a brook, and forests on either hand, 
And said : ' ' Thou shalt wed thy love, and this shall belong to you ; 
For the earth has ever a home for a tender heart and true ! " 

VII 

Even so it came to pass, as the angel promised then : 
He wedded and wandered forth with the earliest friends of Penn, 
And the home foreshown he found, with all that a home endears, — 
A nest of plenty and peace, for a hundred and eighty years 1 

VIII 

In beautiful Warwickshire the life of the two began, — 
A slip of the tree of the dream, a far-off sire of the man ; 



240 HOME BALLADS 

And it seemed to Gabriel Parke, as the leaves above him stirred, 
That the secret dream of his heart the soul of the holly heard. 



Of Patience Phillips he thought : she, too, was a bashful maid : 
The blue of her eyes was hid by the eyelash's golden shade ; 
But well that she could not hide the cheeks that were fair to see 
As the pink of an apple-bud, ere the blossom snows the tree ! 



Ah ! how had the English Parke to the English girl betrayed, 
Save a dream had helped his heart, the love that makes afraid? — 
That seemed to smother his voice, when his blood so sweetly ran, 
And the baby heart lay weak in the rugged breast of the man ? 



His glance came back from the hills and back from the laurel glen, 
And fell on the grass at his feet, where clucked a mother-hen, 
With a brood of tottering chicks, that followed as best they might ; 
But one was trodden and lame, and drooped in a wof ul plight. 



He lifted up from the grass the feeble, chittering thing, 
And warmed its breast at his lips, and smoothed its stumpy wing, 
When, lo ! at his side a voice : " Is it hurt ? " was all she said ; 
But the eyes of both were shy, and the cheeks of both were red. 

XITI 

She took from his hand the chick, and fondled and soothed it then, 
While, knowing that good was meant, cheerfully clucked the hen ; 
And the tongues of the two were loosed : there seemed a wonderful charm 
In talk of the hatching fowls and spring-work done on the farm. 

XIV 

But Gabriel saw that her eyes were drawn to the holly-tree : 

Have you heard," he said, "how it came with the family over the sea ? " 

He told the story again, though he knew she knew it well, 

And a spark of hope, as he spake, like fire in his bosom fell. 



" I dreamed a beautiful dream, here, under the tree, just now," 
He said ; and Patience felt the warmth of his eyes on her brow : 

" I dreamed, like the English Parke ; already the farm I own, 
But the rest of the dream is best — the land is little, alone." 

XVI 

He paused, and looked at the maid : her flushing cheek was bent, 
And, under her chin, the chick was cheeping its warm content ; 
But naught she answered — then he : " O Patience ! I thought of you ! 
Tell me you take the dream, and help me to make it true ! " 

XVII 

The mother looked from the house, concealed by the window-pane, 
And she felt that the holly's spell had fallen upon the twain ; 
She guessed from Gabriel's face what the words he had spoken were, 
And blushed in the maiden's stead, as if they were spoken to her. 







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"THE MOTHER LOOKED FROM THE HOUSE" (Page 240) 



JOHN REED 241 

XVIII 

She blushed, and she turned away, ere the trembling man and maid 
Silently hand in hand had kissed in the holly's shade, 
And Patience -whispered at last, her sweet eyes dim with dew : 
; O Gabriel ! could you dream as much as I 've dreamed of you ? " 

xrx 

The mother said to herself, as she sat in her straight old chair : 
He 's got the pick of the flock, so tidy and kind and fair ! 
At first I shall find it hard, to sit and be still, and see 
How the house is kept to rights by somebody else than me. 

xx 

But the home must be theirs alone : 1 11 do by her, if I can, 

As Gabriel's grandmother did, when I as a wife began : 

So good and faithful he 's been, from the hour when I gave him life, 

He "shall master be in the house, and mistress shall be his wife ! " 



JOHN REED 

There 's a mist on the meadow below ; the herring-frogs chirp and cry ; 
It 's chill when the sun is down, and the sod is not yet dry: 
The world is a lonely place, it seems, and I don't know why. 

I see, as I lean on the fence, how wearily trudges Dan 

"With the feel of the spring in his bones, like a weak and elderly man ; 

I 've had it a many a time, but we must work when we can. 

But day after day to toil, and ever from sun to sun, 
Though up to the season's front and nothing be left undone, 
Is ending at twelve like a clock, and beginning again at one. 

The frogs make a sorrowful noise, and yet it 's the time they mate ; 
There 's something comes with the spring, a lightness or else a weight ; 
There 's something comes with the spring, and it seems to me it 's fate. 

It 's the hankering after a life that you never have learned to know ; 

It 's the discontent with a life that is always thus and so ; 

It's the wondering what we are, and where we are going to go. 

My life is lucky enough, I fancy, to most men's eyes, 
For the more a family grows, the oftener some one dies, 
And it 's now run on so long, it could n't be otherwise. 

And Sister Jane and myself, we have learned to claim and yield ; 

She rules in the house at will, and I in the barn and field, 

So, nigh upon thirty years ! — as if written and signed and sealed. 

I could n't change if I would ; I 've lost the how and the when ; 
One day my time will be up, and Jane be the mistress then, 
For single women are tough, and live down the single men. 

She kept me so to herself, she was always the stronger hand, 

And my lot showed well enough, when I looked around in the land ; 

But I 'm tired and sore at heart, and I don't quite understand. 



242 HOME BALLADS 

I wonder how it had been if I 'd taken what others need, 
The plague, they say, of a wife, the care of a younger breed ? 
If Edith Pleasanton now were with me as Edith Reed ? 

Suppose that a son well grown were there in the place of Dan, 
And I felt myself in him, as I was when my work began ? 
I should feel no older, sure, and certainly more a man ! 

A daughter, besides, in the house ; nay, let there be two or three ! 

We never can overdo the luck that can never be, 

And what has come to the most might also have come to me. 

I've thought, when a neighbor's wife or his child was carried away, 
That to have no loss was a gain ; but now, — I can hardly say ; 
He seems to possess them still, under the ridges of clay. 

And share and share in a life is, somehow, a different thing 
From property held by deed, and the riches that oft take wing ; 
I feel so close in the breast ! — I think it must be the spring. 

I 'm drying up like a brook when the woods have been cleared around 
You're sure it must always run, you are used to the sight and sound, 
But it shrinks till there 's only left a stony rut in the ground. 

There's nothing to do but take the days as they come and go, 
And not to worry with thoughts that nobody likes to show, 
For people so seldom talk of the things they want to know. 

There 's times when the way is plain, and everything nearly right, 
And then, of a sudden, you stand like a man with a clouded sight : 
A bush seems often a beast, in the dusk of the falling night. 

- I must move ; my joints are stiff ; the weather is breeding rain, 
And Dan is hurrying on with his plough-team up the lane. 
I '11 go to the village-store ; I 'd rather not talk with Jane. 

1872. 



JANE REED 

: If I could forget," she said, " forget, and begin again ! 
We see so dull at the time, and, looking back, so plain : 
There's a quiet that's worse, I think, than many a spoken strife, 
And it 's wrong that one mistake should change the whole of a life. 

There 's John, forever the same, so steady, sober, and mild ; 
He never storms as a man who never cried as a child : 
Perhaps my ways are harsh, but if he would seem to care, 
There 'd be fewer swallowed words and a lighter load to bear. 

Here, Cherry ! — she 's found me out, the calf I raised in the spring, 
And a likely heifer she 's grown, the foolish, soft-eyed thing ! 
Just the even color I like, without a dapple or speck, — 
O Cherry, bend down your head, and let me cry on your neck ! 



JANE REED 243 

" The poor dumb beast she is, she never can know nor tell, 
And it seems to do me good, the very shame of the spell: 
So old a woman and hard, and Joel so old a man. — 
But the thoughts of the old go on as the thoughts of the young began ! 

"It's guessing that wastes the heart, far worse than the surest fate: 
If I knew he had thought of me, I could quietly work and wait ; 
And then when either, at last, on a bed of death should lie, 
Why, one might speak the truth, and the other hear and die ! " 

She leaned on the heifer's neck ; the dry leaves fell from the boughs, 
And over the sweet late grass of the meadow strayed the cows : 
The golden dodder meshed the cardinal-flower by the rill ; 
There was autumn haze in the air, and sunlight low on the hill. 

"I've somehow missed my time," she said to herself and sighed: 
"What girls are free to hope, a steady woman must hide, 
But the need outstays the chance : it makes me cry and laugh, 
To think that the only thing I can talk to now is a calf ! " 

A step came down from the hill : she did not turn or rise ; 
There was something in her heart that saw without the eyes. 
She heard the foot delay, as doubting to stay or go : 
"Is the heifer for sale ? " he said. She sternly answered, " No I " 

She lifted her head as she spoke: their eyes a moment met, 
And her heart repeated the words, "If I could only forget ! " 
He turned a little away, but her lowered eyes could see 
His hand, as it picked the bark from the trunk of a hickory-tree. 

: ' Why can't we be friendly, Jane ? " his words came, strange and slow ; 

: ' You seem to bear me a grudge, so long, and so long ago ! 
You were gay and free with the rest, but always so shy of me, 
That, before my freedom came, I saw that it couldn't be." 

"Joel! " was all she cried, as their glances met again, 
And a sudden rose effaced her pallor of age and pain. 
He picked at the hickory bark : " It 's a curious thing to say ; 
But I'm lonely since Phoebe died and the girls are married away. 

" That 's why these thoughts come back : I'm a little too old for pride, 
And I never could understand how love should be all one side : 
T would answer itself, I thought, and time would show me how ; 
But it did n't come so, then, and it doesn't seem so, now ! " 

" Joel, it came so, then ! " — and her voice was thick with tears : 
" A hope for a single day, and a bitter shame for years! " 

He snapped the ribbon of bark ; he turned from the hickory-tree : 
11 Jane, look me once in the face, and say that you thought of me ! " 

She looked, and feebly laughed : "It's a comfort to know the truth, 
Though the chance was thrown away in the blind mistake of youth." 
" And a greater comfort, Jane," he said, with a tender smile, 
"To find the chance you have lost, and keep it a little while." 



244 HOME BALLADS 

She rose as he spake the words : the petted heifer thrust 
Her muzzle between the twain, with an animal's strange mistrust 
But over the creature's neck he drew her to his breast : 
" A horse is never so old but it pulls with another best I " 

" It 's enough to know," she said ; " to remember, not forget ! " 
"Nay, nay : for the rest of life we '11 pay each other's debt ! " 
She had no will to resist, so kindly was she drawn, 
And she sadly said, at last, " But what will become of John V 

1876. 



THE OLD PENNSYLVANIA FARMER 

i 
Well — well ! this is a comfort, now — the air is mild as May, 
And yet 't is March the twentieth, or twenty-first, to-day : 
And Reuben ploughs the hill for corn ; I thought it would be tough, 
But now I see the furrows turned, I guess it 's dry enough. 

ii 
I don't half live, penned up in-doors ; a stove 's not like the sun. 
When I can't see how things go on, I fear they 're badly done : 
I might have farmed till now, I think — one's family is so queer — 
As if a man can't oversee who 's in his eightieth year ! 



Father, I mind, was eighty -five before he gave up his ; 
But he was dim o' sight, and crippled with the rheumatiz. 
I followed in the old, steady way, so he was satisfied ; 
But Reuben likes new-fangled things and ways I can't abide. 

IV 

I 'm glad I built this southern porch ; my chair seems easier here : 
I have n't seen as fine a spring this five-and-twenty year ! 
And how the time goes round so quick! — a week, I would have sworn 
Since they were husking on the flat, and now they plough for corn ! 



When I was young, time had for me a lazy ox's pace, 

But now it 's like a blooded horse, that means to win the race. 

And yet I can't fill out my days, I tire myself with naught ; 

I 'd rather use my legs and hands than plague my head with thought. 



There 's Marshall, too, I see from here : he and his boys begin. 

Why don't they take the lower field ? that one is poor and thin. 

A coat of lime it ought to have, but they 're a doless set : 

They think swamp-mud 's as good, but we shall see what corn they get! 

VII 

Across the level, Brown's new place begins to make a show ; 
I thought he'd have to wait for trees, but, bless me, how they grow ! 
They say it 's fine — two acres rilled with evergreens and things ; 
But so much land ! it worries me, for not a cent it brings. 




I'M GLAD I BUILT THIS SOUTHERN PORCH" (Page 244) 



THE OLD PENNSYLVANIA FARMER 245 

vin 

He Las the right, I don't deny, to please himself that way. 
But 't is a bad example set, and leads young folks astray : 
Book-learning gets the upper-hand and work is slow and slack, 
And they that come long after us will find things gone to wrack. 



Now Reuben 's on the hither side, his team comes back again ; 
I know how deep he sets the share, I see the horses strain : 
I had that field so clean of stones, but he must plough so deep, 
He '11 have it like a turnpike soon, and scarcely fit for sheep. 



If father lived, I 'd like to know what he would say to these 

New notions of the younger men, who farm by chemistries : 

There 's different stock and other grass; there 's patent plough and cart- 

Five hundred dollars for a bull ! it would have broke his heart. 



The maples must be putting out : I see a something red 
Down yonder where the clearing laps across the meadow's head. 
Swamp-cabbage grows beside the run ; the green is good to see, 
But wheat 's the color, after all, that cheers and 'livens me. 



They think I have an easy time, no need to worry now — 

Sit in the porch all day and watch them mow, and sow, and plough 

Sleep in the summer in the shade, in winter in the sun — 

I 'd rather do the thing myself, and know just how it 's done ! 

xin 

Well — I suppose I 'm old, and yet 't is not so long ago 
When Reuben spread the swath to dry, and Jesse learned to mow, 
And William raked, and Israel hoed, and Joseph pitched with me : 
But such a man as I was then my boys will never be ! 



I don't mind William's hankering for lectures and for books; 
He never had a farming knack — you 'd see it in his looks ; 
But handsome is that handsome does, and he is well to do: 
'T would ease my mind if I could say the same of Jesse, too. 

xv 

There 's one black sheep in every flock, so there must be in mine, 
But I was wrong that second time his bond to undersign : 
It 's less than what his share will be — but there 's the interest! 
In ten years more I might have had two thousand to invest. 

XVI 

There 's no use thinking of it now, and yet it makes me sore ; 
The way I 've slaved and saved, I ought to count a little more. 
I never lost a foot of land, and that 's a comfort, sure, 
And if they do not call me rich, they cannot call me poor. 



246 HOME BALLADS 

XVII 

Well, well! ten thousand times I 've thought the things I'm thinking now; 
I 've thought them in the harvest-field and in the clover-mow ; 
And often I get tired of them, and wish I 'd something new — 
But this is all I ' ve had and known ; so what 's a man to do ? 

XVIII 

'T is like my time is nearly out, of that I 'm not afraid : 

I never cheated any man, and all my debts are paid. 

They call it rest that we shall have, but work would do no harm ; 

There can't be rivers there and fields, without some sort o' farm! 



HOME PASTORALS 



AD AMICOS 

MOUNT CUBA, OCTOBER 10, 1874. 

Sometimes an hour of Fate's serenest weather 
Strikes through our changeful sky its coming beams ; 

Somewhere above us, in elusive ether, 
Waits the fulfilment of our dearest dreams. 

So, when the wayward time and gift have blended, 
When hope beholds relinquished visions won, 

The heavens are broken and a blue more splendid 
Holds in its bosom an enchanted sun. 

Then words unguessed, in faith's own shyness guarded, 
To ears unused their welcome music bear: 

Then hands help on that doubtingly retarded, 
And love is liberal as the Summer air. 

The thorny chaplet of a slow probation 

Becomes the laurel Fate so long denied ; 
The form achieved smiles on the aspiration, 

And dream is deed and Art is justified! 

Ah, nevermore the dull neglect, that smothers 
The bard's dependent being, shall return ; 

Forgotten lines are on the lips of others, 
Extinguished thoughts in other spirits burn ! 

Still hoarded lives what seemed so spent and wasted, 
And echoes come from dark or empty years ; 

Here brims the golden cup, no more untasted, 
But fame is dim through mists of grateful tears. 

I sang but as the living spirit taught me, 

Beat towards the light, perchance with wayward wing ; 
And still must answer, for the cheer you 've brought me: 

I sang because I could not choose but sing. 

From that wide air, whose greedy silence swallows 
So many voices, even as mine seemed lost, 

I hear you speak, and sudden glory follows, 
As from a falling tongue of Pentecost. 

So heard and hailed by you, that, standing nearest, 
Blend love with faith in one far-shining flame, 

I hold anew the earliest gift and dearest, — 
The happy Song that cares not for its fame 1 



HOME PASTORALS 

1869-1874 

PROEM 

1 
Now, when the mocking-bird returned, from his Florida winter, 
Sings where the sprays of the elm first touch the plumes of the cypress 
When on the southern porch the stars of the jessamine sparkle 
Faint in the dusk of leaves ; and the thirsty ear of the Poet 
Calls for the cup of song himself must mix ere it gladden, — 
Careful vintager first, though latest guest at the banquet, — 
Where shall he turn ? What foreign Muse invites to her vineyard ? 
Out of what bloom of the Past the wine of remoter romances ? 
Foxy our grapes, of earthy tang and a wildwood astringence 
Unto fastidious tongues ; but later, it may be, their juices, 
Mellowed by time, shall grow to be sweet on the palates of others. 
So will I paint in my verse the forms of the life I am born to, 
Not mediaeval, or ancient ! For whatso hath palpable colors, 
Drawn from being and blood, nor thrown by the spectrum of Fancy, 
Charms in the Future even as truth of the Past in the Present. 



Not for this, nor for nearer voices of intimate counsel, — 

When were ever they heeded ? — but since I am sated with visions, 

Sated with all the siren Past and its rhythmical phantoms, 

Here will I seek my songs in the quiet fields of my boyhood, 

Here, where the peaceful tent of home is pitched for a season. 

High is the house and sunny the lawn: the capes of the woodlands 

Bluff, and buttressed with many boughs, are gates to the distance, 

Blue with hill over hill, that sink as the pausing of music. 

Here the hawthorn blossoms, the breeze is blithe in the orchards, 

Winds from the Chesapeake dull the sharper edge of the winters, 

Letting the cypress live, and the mounded box, and the holly ; 

Here the chestnuts fall and the cheeks of peaches are crimson, 

Ivy clings to the wall and sheltered fattens the fig-tree. 

North and South are as one in the blended growth of the region, 

One in the temper of man, and ancient, inherited habits. 

in 
Yet, though fair as the loveliest landscapes of pastoral England, 
Who hath touched them with song ? and whence my music, and whither 
Life still bears the stamp of its early struggle and labor, 
Still is shorn of its color by pious Quaker repression, 
Still is turbid with calm, or only swift in the shallows. 
Gone are the olden cheer, the tavern-danco and the fox-hunt, 
Muster at trainings, buxom lasses that rode upon pillions, 



250 HOME PASTORALS 

Husking-parties and jovial home-comings after the wedding, 
Gone, as they never had been! — and now, the serious people 
Solemnly gather to hear some wordy itinerant speaker 
Talking of Temperance, Peace, or the Right of Suffrage for Women. 
Sport, that once like a boy was equally awkward and restless, 
Sits with thumb in his mouth, while a petulant ethical bantling 
Struts with his rod, and threatens our careless natural joyance. 
Weary am I with all this preaching the force of example, 
Painful duty to self, and painfuller still to one's neighbor, 
Moral shibboleths, dinned in one's ears with slavering unction, 
Till, for the sake of a change, profanity loses its terrors. 



Clearly, if song is here to be found, I must seek it within me : 
Song, the darling spirit that ever asserted her freedom, 
Soaring on sunlit wing above the clash of opinions, 
Poised at the height of Good with a sweeter and lovelier instinct ! 
Call thee I will not, my life's one dear and beautiful Angel, 
Wayward, faithful and fond ; but, like the Friends in the Meeting, 
Waiting, will so dispose my soul in the pastoral stillness, 
That, denied to Desire, Obedience yet may invite thee ! 



MAY-TIME 



Yes, it is May ! though not that the young leaf pushes its velvet 

Out of the sheath, that the stubbornest sprays are beginning to bourgeon, 

Larks responding aloft to the mellow flute of the bluebird, 

Nor that song and sunshine and odors of life are immingled 

Even as wines in a cup ; but that May, with her delicate philtres 

Drenches the veins and the valves of the heart, — a double possession, 

Touching the sleepy sense with sweet, irresistible languor, 

Piercing, in turn, the languor with flame : as the spirit, requickened 

Stirred in the womb of the world, foreboding a birth and a being ! 



Who can hide from her magic, break her insensible thraldom, 
Clothing the wings of eager delight as with plumage of trouble ? 
Sweeter, perchance, the embryo Spring, forerunner of April, 
When on banks that slope to the south the saxifrage wakens, 
When, beside the dentils of frost that cornice the road-side, 
Weeds are a promise, and woods betray the trailing arbutus. 
Once is the sudden miracle seen, the truth and its rapture 
Felt, and the pulse of the possible May is throbbing already. 
Thus unto me, a boy, the clod that was warm in the sunshine, 
Murmurs of thaw, and imagined hurry of growth in the herbage, 
Airs from over the southern hills, — and something within me 
Catching a deeper sign from these than ever the senses, — 
Came as a call : I awoke, and heard, and endeavored to answer. 
Whence should fall in my lap the sweet, impossible marvel ? 
When would the silver fay appear from the willowy thicket ? 
When from the yielding rock the gnome with his basket of jewels ? 
1 When, ah when ? " I cried, on the steepest perch of the hillside 
Standing with arms outspread, and waiting a wind that should bear me 
Over the apple-tree tops and over the farms of the valley. 



MAY-TIME ? 5 i 

in 
He, that will, let him backward set the stream of his fancy, 
So to evoke a dream from the ruined world of his boyhood ! 
Lo, it is easy ! Yonder, lapped in the folds of the uplands, 
Bickers the brook, to warmer hollows southerly creeping, 
"Where the veronica's eyes are blue, the buttercup brightens, 
"Where the anemones blush, the coils of fern are unrolling 
Hour by hour, and over them flutter the sprinkles of shadow. 
There shall I lie and dangle my naked feet in the water, 
Watching the sleeping buds as one after one they awaken, 
Seeking a lesson in each, a brookside primrose of Wordsworth ? — 
Lie in the lap of May, as a babe that loveth the cradle, 
I, whom her eye inspires, whom the breath of her passion arouses ? 
Say, shall I stray with bended head to look for her posies, 
When with other wings than the coveted lift of the breezes 
Far I am borne, at her call : and the pearly abysses are parted 
Under my flight : the glimmering edge of the planet, receding, 
Rounds to the splendider sun and ripens to glory of color. 
Yeering at will, I view from a crest of the jungled Antilles 
Sparkling, limitless billows of greenness, falling and flowing 
Into fringes of palm and the foam of the blossoming coffee, — 
Cratered isles in the offing, milky blurs of the coral 
Keys, and vast, beyond, the purple arc of the ocean : 
Or, in the fanning furnace-winds of the tenantless Pampas, 
Hear the great leaves clash, the shiver and hiss of the reed-beds. 
Thus for the crowded fulness of life I leave its beginnings, 
Not content to feel the sting of an exquisite promise 
Ever renewed and accepted, and ever freshly forgotten. 



Wherefore, now, recall the pictures of memory ? Wherefore 

Yearn for a fairer seat of life than this I have chosen ? 

Ah, while my quiver of wandering years was yet unexhausted, 

Treading the lands, a truant that wasted the gifts of his freedom, 

Sweet was the sight of a home — or tent, or cottage, or castle, — 

Sweet unto pain ; and never beheld I a Highlander's shieling, 

Never a Flemish hut by a lazy canal and its pollards, 

Never the snowy gleam of a porch through Apennine orchards, 

Never a nest of life on the hoary hills of Judaea, 

Dropped on the steppes of the Don, or hidden in valleys of Norway, 

But, with the fond and foolish trick of a heart that was homeless, 

Each was mine, as I passed : I entered in and possessed it, 

Looked, in fancy, forth, and adjusted my life to the landscape. 

Easy it seemed, to shift the habit of blood as a mantle, 

Fable a Past, and lightly take the form of the Future, 

So that a rest were won, a hold for the filaments, floating 

Loose in the winds of Life. Here, now, behold it accomplished ! 

Nay, but the restless Fate, the certain Nemesis follows, 

As to the bird the voice that bids him prepare for his passage, 

Saying : " Not this is the whole, not these, nor any, the borders 

Set for thy being ; this measured, slow repetition of Nature, 

Painting, effacing, in turn, with hardly a variant outline, 

Cannot replace for thee the Earth's magnificent frescoes! 

Art thou content to inhabit a simple pastoral chamber, 

Leaving the endless halls of her grandeur and glory untrodden ? " 



252 HOME PASTORALS 

v 

Man, I answer, is more : I am glutted with physical beauty 

Born of the suns and rains and the plastic throes of the ages. 

Man is more ; but neither dwarfed like a tree of the Arctic 

Vales, nor clipped into shape as a yew in the gardens of princes. 

Give me to know him, here, where inherited laws and disguises 

Hide him at times from himself, — where his thought is chiefly collective, 

Where, with numberless others fettered like slaves in a coffle, 

Each insists he is free, inasmuch as his bondage is willing. 

Who hath rent from the babe the primitive rights of his nature ? 

Who hath fashioned his yoke ? who patterned beforehand his manhood ? 

Say, shall never a soul be moved to challenge its portion, 

Seek for a wider heritage lost,- a new disenthralment, 

Sending a root to be fed from the deep original sources, 

So that the fibres wax till they split the centuried granite ? 

Surely, starting alike at birth from the ignorant Adam, 

Every type of the race were herein distinctly repeated, 

Hinted in hopes and desires, and harmless divergence of habit, 

Save that the law of the common mind is invisibly written 

Even on our germs, and Life but warms into color the letters. 



Thence, it may be, accustomed to dwell in a moving horizon, 
Here, alas ! the steadfast circle of things is a weary 
Round of monotonous forms : I am haunted by livelier visions. 
Linking men and their homes, endowing both with the language, 
Sweeter than speech, the soul detects in a natural picture, 
I to my varying moods the fair remembrances summon, 
Glad that once and somewhere each was a perfect possession. 
Two will I paint, the forms of the double passion of May -time, — 
Rest and activity, indolent calm and the sweep of the senses. 
One, the soft green lap of a deep Dalecarlian valley, 
Sheltered by piny hills and the distant porphyry mountains ; 
Low and red the house, and the meadow spotted with cattle ; 
All things fair and clear in the light of the midsummer Sabbath, 
Touching, beyond the steel-blue lake and the twinkle of birch-trees, 
Houses that nestle like chicks around the motherly church-roof. 
There, I know, there is innocence, ancient duty and honor, 
Love that looks from the eye and truth that sits on the forehead, 
Pure, sweet blood of health, and the harmless freedom of nature, 
Witless of blame ; for the heart is safe in inviolate childhood. 
Dear is the scene, but it fades : I see, with a leap of the pulses, 
Tawny under the lidless sun the sand of the Desert, 
Fiery solemn hills, and the burning green of the date-trees 
Belting the Nile: the tramp of the curvetting stallions is muffled; 
Brilliantly stamped on the blue are the white and scarlet of turbans ; 
Lances prick the sky with a starry glitter ; the fulness, 
Joy, and delight of life are sure of the day and the morrow, 
Certain the gifts of sense, and the simplest order suffices. 
Breathing again, as once, the perfect air of the Desert, 
Good it seems to escape from the endless menace of duty, 
There, where the will is free, and wilfully plays with its freedom, 
And the lack of will for the evil thing is a virtue. 

VII 

Man is more, I have said : but the subject mood is a fashion 
Wrought of his lighter mind and dyed with the hues of his senses. 



AUGUST 253 

Then to be truly more, to be verily free, to be master 

As beseems to the haughty soul that is lifted by knowledge 

Over the multitude's law, enforcing their own acquiescence, — 

Lifted to longing and will, in its satisfied loneliness centred, — 

This prohibits the cry of the nerves, the weak lamentation 

Shaming my song : for I know whence cometh its languishing burden. 

Impotent all I have dreamed, — and the calmer vision assures me 

Such were barren, and vapid the taste of joy that is skin-deep. 

Better the nest than the wandering wing, the loving possession, 

Intimate, ever-renewed, than the circle of shallower changes. 



AUGUST 



Dead is the air, and still ! the leaves of the locust and walnut 
Lazily hang from the boughs, inlaying their intricate outlines 
Rather on space than the sky, — on a tideless expansion of slumber. 
Faintly afar in the depths of the duskily withering grasses 
Katydids chirp, and I hear the monotonous rattle of crickets. 
Dead is the air, and ah ! the breath that was wont to refresh me 
Out of the volumes I love, the heartful, whispering pages, 
Dies on the type, and I see but wearisome characters only. 
Therefore be still, thou yearning voice from the garden in Jena, — 
Still, thou answering voice from the park-side cottage in Weimar, — 
Still, sentimental echo from chambers of office in Dresden, — 
Ye. and the feebler and farther voices that sound in the pauses ! 
Each and all to the shelves I return : for vain is your commerce 
Xow, when the world and the brain are numb in the torpor of August. 



Over the tasselled corn, and fields of the twice-blossomed clover, 
Dimly the hills recede in the reek of the colorless hazes : 
Dull and lustreless, now, the burnished green of the woodlands ; 
Leaves of blackberry briers are bronzed and besprinkled with copper ; 
Weeds in the unmown meadows are blossoming purple and yellow, 
Roughly entwined, a wreath for the tan and wrinkles of Summer. 
Where shall I turn ? What path attracts the indifferent footstep, 
Eager no more as in June, nor lifted with wings as in May-time ? 
Whitherward look for a goal, when buds have exhausted their promise, 
Harvests are reaped, and grapes and berries are waiting for Autumn ? 
Wander, my feet, as ye list ! I am careless, to-day, to direct you. 
Take, here, the path by the pines, the russet carpet of needles 
Stretching from wood to wood, and hidden from sight by the orchard ! 
Here, in the sedge of the slope, the centaury pink, as a sea-shell, 
Opens her stars all at once, and with finer than tropical spices 
Sweetens the season's drouth, the censer of fields that are sterile. 
]STow, from the height of the grove, between the irregular tree-trunks, 
Over the falling fields and the meadowy curves of the valley, 
Glimmer the peaceful farms, the mossy roofs of the houses, 
Gables gray of the neighboring barns, and gleams of the highway 
Climbing the ridges beyond to dip in the dream of a forest. 

in 
Ah. forsaking the shade, and slowly crushing the stubble, 
Parting the viscous roseate stems and the keen penn} r royal, 



254 HOME PASTORALS 

Rises a different scene, suggestion of heat and of stillness, — 
Heat as intense and stillness as dumb, the immaculate ether's 
Hush when it vaults the waveless Mediterranean sea-floor; ' 
Golden the hills of Cos, with pencilled cerulean shadows ; 
Phantoms of Carian shores that are painted and fade in the distance ; 
Patmos behind, and westward the flushed Ariadnean ISTaxos, — 
Once as I saw them sleeping, drugged by the poppy of Summer. 
There, indeed, was the air, as with floating stars of the thistle 
Filled with impalpable forms, regrets, possibilities, longings, 
Beauty that was and was not, and Life that was rhythmic and joyous, 
So that the sun-baked clay the peasant took for his wine-jars 
Brighter than gold I thought, and the red acidity nectar. 
Here, at my feet, the clay is clay and a nuisance the stubble, 
Flaring St. John's-wort, milk-weed, and coarse, unpoetical mullein ; — 
Yet, were it not for the poets, say, is the asphodel fairer ? 
Were not the mullein as dear, had Theocritus sung it, or Bion ? 
Yea, but they did not ; and we, whose fancy's tenderest tendrils 
Shoot unsupported, and wither, for want of a Past we can cling to, 
We, so starved in the Present, so weary of singing the Future, — 
What is 't to us, if, haply, a score of centuries later, 
Milk- weed inspires Patagonian tourists, and mulleins are classic ? 

IT 

Idly balancing fortunes, feeling the spite of them, maybe, — 

For the little withheld outweighs the much that is given, — 

Feeling the pang of the brain, the endless, unquenchable yearning 

Born of the knowledge of Beauty, not to be shared or imparted, 

Slowly I stray, and drop by degrees to the thickets of alder 

Fringing a couch of the stream, a basin of watery slumber. 

Broken, it seems ; for the splash and the drip and the bubbles betoken 

What ? — the bath of a nymph, the bashful strife of a Hylas ? 

Broad is the back, and bent from an un-Olympian stooping, 

Narrow the loins and firm, the white of the thighs and the shoulders 

Changing to reddest and toughest of tan at the knees and the elbows. 

Is it a faun ? He sees me, nor cares to hide in the thickets. 

Faun of the bog is he, a sylvan creature of Galway 

Come from the ditch below, to cleanse him of sweat and of muck-stain ; 

Willing to give me speech, as, naked, he stands in the shallows. 

Something of coarse, uncouth, barbaric, he leaves on the bank there; 

Something of primitive human fairness cometh to clothe him. 

Were he not bent with the pick, but straightened from reaching the bunches 

Hung from the mulberry branches, — heard he the bacchanal cymbals, 

Took from the sun an even gold on the web of his muscles, 

Knew the bloom of his stunted bud of delight of the senses, — 

Then as faun or shepherd he might have been welcome in marble. 

Yea, but he is not ; and I, requiring the beautiful balance, 

Music of life in the body, and limbs too fair to be hidden, 

Find, indeed, some delicate colors and possible graces, — 

Moral hints of the man beneath the unsavory garments, — 

Find them, and sigh, lamenting the law reversed of the races 

Starting the world afresh on the basis unlovely of Labor. 

v 
Was it a spite of fate that blew me hither, an exile, 
Still unweaned, and not to be weaned, from the milk I was born to ? 
Bitter the stranger's bread to the homesick, hungering palate; 



AUGUST 255 

Bitterer still to the soul the taste of the food that is foreign ! 
Yet must I take it, yet live, and somehow seem to be healthy, 
Lest my neighbors, perchance, be shocked by an uncomprehended 
Violent clamor for that which I crave and they cannot supply me, — 
Hunger unmeet for the times, anachronistical passions, — 
Beauty seeming distorted because the rule is distortion. 
Here is a tangle which, now, too idle am I to unravel, 
Snared, moreover, by bitter-sweet, moon-seed, and riotous fox-grape, 
Meshing the thickets : procul, procul, unpractical fancies ! 
Verily, thus bewildering myself in the maze of aesthetic, 
Solveless problems, the feet w T ere wellnigh heedlessly fettered. 
Thoughtless, 'tis true, I relinquished my books; but crescit eundo 
Wisely was said, — for desperate vacancy prompted the ramble, 
Memories prolonged, and a phantom of logic urges it onward. 

VI 

Here are the fields again ! The soldierly maize in tassel 

Stands on review, and carries the scabbarded ears in its arm-pits. 

Rustling I part the ranks, — the close, engulfing battalions 

Shaking their plumes overhead, — and, wholly bewildered and heated, 

Gain the top of the ridge, where stands, colossal, the pin-oak. 

Yonder, a mile away, I see the roofs of the village, — 

See the crouching front of the meeting-house of the Quakers, 

Oddly conjoined with the whittled Presbyterian steeple. 

Right and left are the homes of the slow, conservative farmers, 

Loyal people and true, but, now that the battles are over, 

Zealous for Temperance, Peace, and the Right of Suffrage for "Women. 

Orderly, moral, are they, — at least, in the sense of suppression ; 

Given to preaching of rules, inflexible outlines of duty ; 

Seeing the sternness of life, but, alas ! overlooking its graces. 

Let me be juster : the scattered seeds of the graces are planted 

Widely apart ; but the trumpet-vine on the porch is a token ; 

Yea, and aw^ake and alive are the forces of love and affection, 

Plastic forces that work from the tenderer models of beauty. 

Who shall dare to speak of the possible ? Who shall encounter 

Pity and wrath and reproach, recalling the record immortal 

Left by the races when Beauty was law and Joy was religion ? 

Who to the Duty in drab shall bring the garlanded Pleasure ? — 

Break with the chant of the gods, the gladsome timbrels of morning, 

Nasal, monotonous chorals, sung by the sad congregation ? 

Better it were to sleep with the owl, to house with the hornet, 

Than to conflict with the satisfied moral sense of the people. 

VII 

Nay, but let me be just ; nor speak with the alien language 

Born of my blood ; for, cradled among them, I know them and love them. 

Was it my fault, if a strain of the distant and dead generations 

Rose in my being, renewed, and made me other than these are ? 

Purer, perhaps, their habit of law than the freedom they shrink from ; 

So, restricted by will, a little indulgence is riot. 

They, content with the glow of a carefully tempered twilight, 

Measured pulses of joy, and colorless growth of the senses, 

Stand aghast at my dream of the sun, and the sound, and the splendor! 

Mine it is, and remains, resenting the threat of suppression, 

Stubbornly shaping my life, and feeding with fragments its hunger. 

Drifted from Attican hills to stray on a Scythian level, 

So unto me it appears, — unto them a perversion and scandal. 



256 HOME PASTORALS 

VIII 

Lo ! in the vapors, the sun, colossal and crimson and beamless, 
Touches the woodland ; fingers of air prepare for the dew-fall. 
Life is fresher and sweeter, insensibly toning to softness 
Needs and desires that are but the broidered hem of its mantle, 
Not the texture of daily use ; and the soul of the landscape, 
Breathing of justified rest, of peace developed by patience, 
Lures me to feel the exquisite senses that come from denial, 
Sharper passion of Beauty never fulfilled in external 
Forms or conditions, but always a fugitive has-been or may -be. 
Bright and alive as a want, incarnate it dozes and fattens. 
Thus, in aspiring, I reach what were lost in the idle possession; 
Helped by the laws I resist, the forces that daily depress me ; 
Bearing in secreter joy a luminous life in my bosom, 
Fair as the stars on Cos, the moon on the boscage of Naxos ! 
Thus the skeleton Hours are clothed with rosier bodies : 
Thus the buried Bacchanals rise unto lustier dances : 
Thus the neglected god returns to his desolate temple: 
Beauty, thus rethroned, accepts and blesses her children ! 



NOVEMBER 



Wrapped in his sad-colored cloak, the Day, like a Puritan, standeth 
Stern in the joyless fields, rebuking the lingering color, — 
Dying hectic of leaves and the chilly blue of the asters, — 
Hearing, perchance, the croak of a crow on the desolate tree-top, 
Breathing the reek of withered weeds, or the drifted and sodden 
Splendors of woodland, as whoso piously groaneth in spirit : 
Vanity, verily ; yea, it is vanity, let me forsake it ! 
Yea, let it fade, for Life is the empty clash of a cymbal, 
Joy a torch in the hands of a fool, and Beauty a pitfall ! " 



Once, I remember, when years had the long duration of ages, 
Came, with November, despair ; for summer had vanished forever. 
Lover of light, my boyish heart as a lover's was jealous, 
Followed forsaking suns and felt its passion rejected, 
Saw but Age and Death, in the whole wide circle of Nature 
Throned forever ; and hardly yet have I steadied by knowledge 
Faith that faltered and patience that was but a weary submission. 
Though to the right and left I hear the call of the huskers 
Scattered among the rustling shocks, and the cheerily whistled 
Lilt of an old plantation tune from an ebony teamster, 
These behold no more than the regular jog of a mill-wheel 
Where, unto me, there is possible end and diviner beginning. 
Silent are now the flute of Spring and the clarion of Summer 
As they had never been blown : the wail of a dull Miserere 
Heavily sweeps the woods, and, stifled, dies in the valleys. 



Who are they that prate of the sweet consolation of Nature ? 
They who fly from the city's heat for a month to the sea- shore, 
Drink of unsavory springs, or camp in the green Adirondacks ? 
They, long since, have left with their samples of ferns and of algae, 



NOVEMBER 257 

Memories carefully dried and somewhat lacking in color, 
Gossip of tree and cliff and wave and modest adventure, 
Such as a graceful sentiment — not too earnest — admits of, 
Heard in the pause of a dance or bridging the gaps of a dinner. 
Nay, but I, who know her, exult in her profligate seasons, 
Tura from the silence of men to her fancied, fond recognition, 
I am repelled at last by her sad and cynical humor. 
Kinder, cheerier now, were the pavements crowded with people, 
Walls that hide the sky, and the endless racket of business. 
There a hope in something lifts and enlivens the current, 
Face seeth face, and the hearts of a million, beating together, 
Hidden though each from other, at least are outwardly nearer, 
Lending the life of all to the one, — bestowing and taking, 
Weaving a common web of strength in the meshes of contact, 
Close, yet never impeded, restrained, yet delighting in freedom. 
There the soul, secluded in self, or touching its fellow 
Only with horny palms that hide the approach of the pulses, 
Driven abroad, discovers the secret signs of its kindred, 
Kisses on lips unknown, and words on the tongue of the stranger. 
Life is set to a statelier march, a grander accordance 
Follows its multitudinous steps of dance and of battle : 
Part hath each in the music ; even the sacredest whisper 
Findeth a soul unafraid and an ear that is ready to listen. 

rv 

Nature ? 'T is well to sing of the glassy Bandusian fountain, 
Shining Ortygian beaches, or flocks on the meadows of Enna, 
Linking the careless life with the careless mood of the Mother. 
We, afar and alone, confronted with heavier questions, 
Robbed of the oaten pipe before it is warm in our fingers, 
Why should we feign a faith ? — why crown an indifferent goddess ? 
Under the gray, monotonous vault what carolling song-bird 
Hopes for an echo ? Closer and lower the vapors are folded ; 
Sighing shiver the woods, though drifted leaves are unrustled ; 
Ghosts of the grasses that fled with a breath and floated in sunshine 
Hang unstirred on brier and fence ; for a new desolation 
Comes with the rain, that, chilly and quietly creeping at nightfall, 
Thence for many a day shall dismally drizzle and darken. 

v 

See!" (methinks I hear the mechanical routine repeated,) 

Emblems of faith in the folded bud and the seed that is sleeping! " 

Knowledge, not Faith, deduced the similitude ; how shall an emblem 

Give to the soul the steadfast truth that alone satisfies it ? 

Joy of the Spring I can feel, but not the preaching of Autumn. 

Earth, if a lesson is wrought upon each of thy radiant pages, 

Give us the words that sustain us, and not the words that discourage ! 

Sceptic art thou become, the breeder of doubt and confusion, 

Powerless vassal of Fate, assuming a meek resignation, 

Yielding the forces that moved in thy life and made it triumphant 1 

VI 

Xow, as my circle of home is slowly swallowed in darkness, 
As with the moan of winds the rain is drearily falling, — 
Hopes that drew as the sun and aims that stood as the pole-star 
Fading aloof from my life as though it never had known them. — 



258 HOME PASTORALS 

Where, when the wont is deranged, shall I find a permanent foothold ? 

Stripped of the rags of Time I see the form of my being, 

Born of all that ever has been, and haughtily reaching 

Forward to all that comes, — yet certain, this moment, of nothing. 

Chide or condemn as ye may, the truant and mutinous spirit 

Turns on itself, and forces release from its holiest habit ; 

Soars where the suns are sprinkled in cold illimited darkness, 

Peoples the spheres with far diviner forms of existence, 

Questions, conjectures at will ; for Earth and its creeds are forgotten. 

Thousands of seons it gathers, yet scarce its feet are supported ; 

Dumb is the universe unto the secrets of Whence ? and of Whither ? 

So, as a dove through the summits of ether falling exhausted, 

Under it yawns the blank of an infinite Something — or Nothing ! 

VII 

Let me indulge in the doubt, for this is the token of freedom, 

This is all that is safe from hands that would fain intermeddle, 

Thrusting their worn phylacteries over the eyes that are seeking 

Truth as it shines in the sky, not truth as it smokes in their lantern. 

Ah, shall I venture alone beyond the limits they set us, 

Bearing the spark within till a breath of the Deity fan it 

Into an upward-pointing flame ? — and, forever unquiet, 

Nearer through error advance, and nearer through ignorant yearning ? 

Yes, it must be : the soul from the soul cannot hide or diminish 

Aught of its essence: here the duplicate nature is ended: 

Here the illusions recede, at man's unassailable centre. 

And the nearness and f arness of God are all that is left him. 



Lo ! as I muse, there come on the lonely darkness and silence 
Gleams like those of the sun that reach his uttermost planet, 
Inwardly dawning ; and faint and sweet as the voices of waters 
Borne from a sleeping mountain- vale on a breeze of the midnight, 
Falls a message of cheer: "Be calm, for to doubt is to seek whom 
None can escape, and the soul is dulled with an idle acceptance. 
Crying, questioning, stumbling in gloom, thy pathway ascendeth; 
They with the folded hands at the last relapse into strangers. 
Over thy head, behold ! the wing with its measureless shadow 
Spread against the light, is the wing of the Angel of Unfaith, 
Chosen of God to shield the eyes of men from His glory. 
Thus through mellower twilights of doubt thou climbest undazzled, 
Mornward ever directed, and even in wandering guided. 
God is patient of souls that reach through an endless creation, 
So but His shadow be seen, but heard the trail of His mantle ! " 

IX 

Who is alone in this ? The elder brothers, immortal, 

Leaned o'er the selfsame void and rose to the same consolation, 

Human therein as we, however diviner their message. 

Even as the liquid soul of summer, pent in the flagon, 

Waits in the darksome vault till we crave its odor and sunshine, 

So in the Past the words of life, the voices eternal. 

Freedom like theirs we claim, yet lovingly guard in the freedom 

Sympathies due to the time and help to the limited effort ; 

Thus with double arms embracing our duplicate being, 

Setting a foot in either world, we stand as the Masters. 



L'ENVOI 259 

Ah, but who can arise so far, except in his longing ? 
Give nie thy hand ! — the soft and quickening life of thy pulses 
Spans the slackened spirit and lifts the eyelids of Fancy : 
Doubt is of loneliness born, belief companions the lover. 
Ever from thee, as once from youth's superfluous forces, 
Courage and hope are renewed, the endless future created. 
Out of the season's hollow the sunken sun shall be lifted, 
Bringing faith in his beams, the green resurrection of Easter, 
After the robes of death by the angels of air have been scattered, 
Climbing the heights of heaven, to stand supreme at his solstice ! 



L'ENVOI 

1 
May-time and August, November, and over the winter to May-time, 
Year after year, or shaken by nearness of imminent battle, 
Or as remote from the stir as an isle of the sleepy Pacific, 
Here, at least, I have tasted peace in the pauses of labor, 
Rest as of sleep, the gradual growth of deliberate Nature. 
Here, escaped from the conflict of taste, the confusion of voices 
Heard in a land where the form of Art abides as a stranger, 
Come to me definite hopes and clearer possible duties, 
Faith in the steadfast service, content with tardy achievement. 
Here, in men, I have found the elements working as elsewhere, 
Ever betraying the surge and swell of invisible currents, 
Which, from beneath, from the deepest bases of thought in the people 
Press, and heavy with change, and filled with visions unspoken, 
Bear us onward to shape the formless face of the Future. 



Now, if the tree I planted for mine must shadow another's, 

If the uncounted tender memories, sown with the seasons, 

Filling the webs of ivy, the grove, the terrace of roses, 

Clothing the lawn with unwithering green, the orchard with blossoms, 

Singing a finer song to the exquisite motion of waters, 

Breathing profounder calm from the dark Dodonian oak-trees, 

Now must be lost, till, haply, the hearts of others renew them, — 

Yet we have had and enjoyed, we have and enjoy them forever. 

Drops from the bough the fruit that here was sunnily ripened: 

Other will grow as well on the westward slope of the garden. 

Sorrowing not, nor driven forth by the sword of an angel, 

Nay, but borne by a fuller tide as a ship from the harbor, 

Slowly out of our eyes the pastoral bliss of the landscape 

Fades, and is dim, and sinks below the rim of the ocean. 

in 
Sorrowing not, I have said: with thee was the ceasing of sorrow. 
Hope from thy lips I have drawn, and subtler strength from thy spirit, 
Sharer of dream and of deed, inflexible conscience of Beauty ! 
Though as a Grace thou art dear, as a guardian Muse thou art earnest, 
Walking with purer feet the paths of song that I venture, 
Side by side, unwearied, in cheerful, encouraging silence. 
Not thy constant woman's heart alone I have wedded ; 
One are we made in patience and faith and high aspiration. 
Thus, at last, the light of the fortunate age is recovered: 
Thus, wherever we wander, the shrine and the oracle follow! 



LARS: 

A PASTORAL OF NORWAY 



TO 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 

Through many years my heart goes back, 

Through checkered years of loss and gain, 
To that fair landmark on its track, 
When first, beside the Merrimack, 
Upon thy cottage roof I heard the autumn rain. 

A hand that welcomed and that cheered 

To one unknown didst thou extend ; 
Thou gavest hope to Song that feared ; 
But now, by Time and Faith endeared, 
I claim the sacred right to call the Poet, Friend ! 

However Life the stream may stain, 

From thy pure fountain drank my youth 
The simple creed, the faith humane 
In Good, that never can be slain, 
The prayer for inward Light, the search for outward Truth ! 

Like thee, I see at last prevail 

The sleepless soul that looks above ; 
I hear, far off, the hymns that hail 
The Victor, clad in heavenly mail, 
Whose only weapons are the eyes and voice of Love ! 

Take, then, these olive leaves from me, 

To mingle with thy brighter bays ! 
Some balm of peace and purity, 
In them, may faintly breathe of thee ; 
And take the grateful love, wherein I hide thy praise ! 



LARS: 

A PASTORAL OF NORWAY 

BOOK I 

On curtained eyes, and bosoms warm with rest, 

On slackened fingers and unburdened feet, 

On limbs securer slumber held from toil, 

While nimble spirits of the busy blood 

Renewed their suppleness, yet filled the trance 

With something happy which was less than dream, 

The sun of Sabbath rose. Two hours, afar, 

Behind the wintry peaks of Justedal, 

Unmarked, he climbed ; then, pausing on the crest 

Of Fille Fell, he gathered up his beams 

Dissolved in warmer blue, and showered them down 

Between the mountains, through the falling vale, 

On Ulvik's cottages and orchard trees. 

And one by one the chimneys breathed ; the sail 

That loitered lone along the misty fiord 

Flashed like a star, and filled with fresher wind; 

The pasturing steers, dispersed on grassy slopes, 

Raised heads of wonder over hedge and wall 

To call, unanswered, the belated cows ; 

And ears that would not hear, or heard in dreams, 

The lark's alarum over idle fields, 

And lids, still sweetly shut, that else unclosed 

At touch of daybreak, yielded to the day. 

Then, last of all, among the maidens, met 

To dip fresh faces in the chilly fount, 

And smoothen braids of sleep-entangled hair, 

Came Brita, glossy as a mating bird. 

No need had she to stoop and wash awake 

Her drowsy senses: air and water kissed 

A face as bright and breathing as their own, 

In joy of life and conscious loveliness. 

If still her mirror's picture stayed with her, 

A memory, whispering how the downcast lid 

Shaded the flushing fairness of her cheek, 

And hinting how a straying lock relieved 

The rigid fashion of her hair, or how 

The curve of slightly parted lips became 

Half-sad, half-smiling, either meaning much 

Or naught, as wilful humor might decide, — 

Yet thence was born the grace she could not lose : 

Her beauty, guarded, kept her beautiful. 



264 LARS 

" Wilt soon be going, Brita ?" Ragnil asked ; 

1 ' And which the way, — by fiord or over fell ? " 

' ' Why, both ! " another laughed ; "or else the rocks 
Will split and slide beneath the feet of Lars, 
Or Per will meet the Kraken ! " Brita held 
One dark-brown braid between her teeth, and wove 
The silken twine and tassels through its fringe, 
Before she spake ; but first she seemed to sigh : 

" I will not choose ; you shall not spoil my day ! 
All paths are free that lead across the fell ; 
All wakes are free to keels upon the fiord, 
And even so my will : come Lars or Per, 
Come Erik, Anders, Harald, Olaf, Nils, 
Come sceter-boys, or sailors from the sea, 
No lass is bound to slight a decent lad, 
Or walk behind him when the way is wide." 

" No way is wide enough for three, I've heard," 
Said Ragnil, " save there be two men that prop 
A third, when market's over." 

" Go your ways!" 
Then Brita cried : " if two or twelve should come, 
I call them not, nor do I bid them go : 
A friendly word is no betrothal ring." 

Then tossed she back her braids, and with them tossed 

Her wilful head. "Why, take you both, or all ! " 

She said, and left them, adding, "if you can ! " 

With silent lips, nor cared what prudent fears, 

Old-fashioned wisdom, dropped in parrot-words, 

Chattered behind her as she climbed the lane. 

Along her path the unconverted bees 

Set toil to music, and the elder-flowers 

Bent o'er the gate a snowy entrance-arch, 

Where, highest on the slope, her cottage sat. 

Her bed of pinks there yielded to the sun 

Its clove and cinnamon odors; sheltered there 

Beneath the eaves, a rose-tree nursed its buds, 

And through the door, across the dusk within, 

She saw her grandam set the morning broth 

And cut a sweeter loaf. All breathed of peace, 

Of old, indulgent love, and simple needs, 

Yet Brita sighed, — then blushed because she sighed. 

" Dear Lord ! " the ancient dame began, " *t is just 
The day, the sun, the breeze, the smell of flowers, 
As fifty years ago, in Hallingdal, 
When I, like thee, picked out my smartest things, 
And put them on, half guessing what would hap, 
And found my luck before I took them off. 
See ! thou shalt wear the brooch, my mother's then, 
And thine when I am gone. Some luck, who knows ? 
May still be shining in the fair red stone." 
So, from a box that breathed of musky herbs, 
She took the boss of roughly fashioned gold, 



LARS 265 

With garnets studded : took, but gave not yet. 

Some pleasure in the smooth, cool touch of gold, 

Or wine-red sparkles, flickering o'er the stones, 

Or dream of other lingers, other lips 

That kissed them for the bed they rocked upon 

That happy summer eve in Hallingdal, 

Gave her slow heart its girlhood's pulse again, 

Her cheek one last leaf of its virgin rose. 

Oh, foolishness of age ! She dared not say 
What then she felt : Go, child, enjoy the bliss 
Of innocent woman, ripe for need of man, 
And needing him no less ! Some natural art 
Will guide thy guileless fancies, some pure voice 
Will whisper truth, and lead thee to thy fate ! 
But, ruled by ancient habit, counselled thus : 
" Be on thy guard, my Brita ! men are light 
Of tongue, and unto faces such as thine 
Mean not the half they say : the girl is prized 
Who understands their ways, and holds them off 
Till he shall come, who, facing her, as she 
And death were one, pleads for his life with her: 
When such an one thou meetest, thou wilt know." 

" Nay, grandam! " Brita said! " I will not hear 

A voice so dreadful -earnest: I am young, 

And I can give and take, not meaning much, 

Nor over-anxious to seem death to men : 

I like them all, and they are good to me. 

I '11 wear thy brooch, and may it bring me luck, 

Not such as thine was, as I guess it was, 

But, in the kirk, short sermon, cheerful hymn, 

Good neighbors on the way, and for the dance 

A light-foot partner ! " With a rippling laugh 

That brushed the surface of her heart, and hid 

Whatever doubt its quiet had betrayed, 

She kissed the withered cheek, and on her breast 

Pinned the rough golden boss with wine-red stones. 
" Come, Brita, come!" rang o'er the elder-flowers: 
" I come ! " she answered, threw her fleeting face 

Upon the little mirror, took her bunch 

Of feathered pinks, and joined the lively group 

Of Sundayed lads and lasses in the lane. 

They set themselves to climb the stubborn fell 
By stony stairs that left the fields below, 
And ceased, far up, against the nearer blue. 
But lightly sprang the maids ; and where the slides 
Of ice ground smooth the slanting planes of rock, 
Strong arms drew up and firm feet steadied theirs. 
Here lent the juniper a prickly hand, 
Arid there they grasped the heather's frowsy hair, 
While jest and banter made the giddy verge 
Secure as orchard-turf ; and none but showed 
The falcon's eye that guides the hunter's foot, 
Till o'er their flushed and breathless faces struck 



266 LARS 



The colder ether ; on the crest they stood, , 
And sheltered vale and ever-winding fiord 
Sank into gulfs of shadow, while afar 
To eastward many a gleaming tooth of snow 
Cut the full round of sky. 

' ' Why, look you, now ! " 
Cried one : ' ' the fiord is bare as threshing-floor 
When winter 's over : what 's become of Per ? " 
' And what of Lars ? " asked Ragnil, with a glance 
At Brita's careless face ; "can he have climbed 
The Evil Pass, and crossed the thundering foss, 
His nearest way ? " As clear as blast of horn 
There came a cry, and on the comb beyond 
They saw the sparkle of a scarlet vest. 
Then, like the echo of a blast of horn, 
A moment later, fainter and subdued, 
A second cry ; and far to left appeared 
A form that climbed and leaped, and nearer strove. 
And Harald, Anders Ericssen, and Nils 
Set their free voices to accordant pitch 
And shouted one wild call athwart the blue, 
Until it seemed to quiver : as they ceased 
The maids began, and, moving onward, gave 
Strong music : all the barren summits rang. 

So from the shouts and girlish voices grew 

The wayward chorus of a sceter-song, 

Such as around the base of Skagtolstind 

The chant of summer- jotun seems, when all 

The herds are resting and the herdsmen meet ; 

And while it swept with swelling, sinking waves 

The crags and ledges, Lars had joined the band, 

And from the left came Per ; and Brita walked 

Between them where the path was broad, but when 

It narrowed to such track as tread the sheep 

Round slanting shoulder and o'er rocky spur 

To reach the rare, sweet herbage, one went close 

Before her, one behind, and unto both 

With equal cheer and equal kindliness 

Her speech was given : so both were glad of heart. 

A herdsman, woodman, hunter, Lars was strong, 
Yet silent from his life upon the hills. 
Beneath dark lashes gleamed his darker eyes 
Like mountain-tarns that take their changeless hue 
From shadows of the pine : in all his ways 
He showed that quiet of the upper world 
A breath can turn to tempest, and the force 
Of rooted firs that slowly split the stone. 
But Per was gay with laughter of the seas 
Which were his home : the billow breaking 'blue 
On the Norwegian skerries flashed again 
Within his sunbright eyes ; and in his tongue, 
Set to the louder, merrier key it learned 
In hum of rigging, roar of wind and tide, 



LARS 267 

The rhythm of ocean and its wilful change 

Allured all hearts as ocean lures the land. 

Now which, this daybreak with his yellow locks, 

Or yonder twilight, calm, mysterious, filled 

With promise of its stars, shall turn the mind 

Of the light maiden who is neither fain 

To win nor lose, since, were the other not, 

Then each were welcome ? — how should maid decide ? 

For that the passion of the twain was marked, 

And haply envied, and a watch was set, 

She would be strong : and, knowing, seem as though 

She nothing knew, until occasion came 

To bid her choose, or teach her how to choose. 

On each and all the soberness of morn 

Yet lay, the weight of hard reality 

That even clogs the callow wings of love ; 

And now descending, where the broader vale 

Showed farm on farm, and groves of birch and oak, 

And fields that shifted gloss like shimmering silk, 

The kirk-bells called them through the mellow air, 

Slow-swinging, till, as from a censer's cup 

The smoke diffused makes all the minster sweet, 

The peace they chimed pervaded earth and sky. 

As under foliage of the lower land 

The pathway led, more harmless fell the jest, 

The laugh less frequent : then the maidens drew 

Apart, set smooth their braids, their kirtles shook, 

And grave, decorous as a troop of nuns, 

Entered the little town. Ragnil alone 

And Anders Ericssen together walked, 

For twice already had their banns been called. 

Lars shot one glance at Brita, as to say : 

' Were thou and I thus promised, side by side ! " 

Then looked away ; but Per, who kept as near 

As decent custom let, all softly sang : 

Forget me thou, I shall remember still ! " 

That she might hear him, and so not forget. 

Thus onward to the gray old kirk they moved. 

The bells had ceased to chime : the hush within 

With holy shuddering from the organ-bass 

Was filled, and when it died the prayer arose. 

Then came another stillness, as the Lord 

Were near, or bent to listen from afar, 

And last the text ; but Brita found it strange. 

Thus read the pastor : ' ' Set me as a seal 

Upon thy heart, yea, set me as a seal 

Upon thine arm ; for love is strong as death, 

And jealousy is cruel as the grave." 

She felt the garnets burn upon her breast, 

As if all fervor of the olden love 

Still heated them, and fire of jealousy, 

And to herself she thought: " Has any face 

Looked on me with a love as strong as death ? 

But I am Life, and how am I to know ? " 



268 LARS 



Then, straightway weary of the puzzle, she 
Began to wander with her dancing thoughts 
Out o'er the fell, and up and down the slopes 
Of sunny grass, while ever and anon 
The preacher's solemn voice struck through her dream, 
Its sound a menace and its sense unknown. 
Then she was sad, and vexed that she was sad, 
And vexed with them who only could have caused 
Her sadness : " Grandam's luck, forsooth ! " she thought: 
" If one were luck, why, two by rights were more, 
But two a plague, a lesser plague were one, 
And not a fortune ! " So, till service ceased, 
And all arose when benediction came, 
She mused with pettish thrust of under lip, 
Nor met the yearning eyes of Lars and Per. 

The day's grave duty done, forth issued all, 
Foregathering with the Vossevangen youth, 
The girls of Graven and the boys of Vik, 
Where under elms before the guest-house front 
Stood tables brown with age : already bore 
The host his double-handed bunch of cans 
Fresh-filled and foaming ; and the cry of Skoal ! 
Mixed with the clashing kiss of glassy lips. 
But when in gown of black the pastor came, 
All rose, respectful, waiting for his words. 
A pace in front stood Anders Ericssen, 
Undignified in bridegroom dignity, 
Because too conscious : Ragnil blushed with shame, 
And all the maidens envied her the shame, 
When reverend fingers tapped her cheek, and he, 
That good man, said : " How fares my bonny bride ? 
She must not be the last this summer ; look, 
My merry lads, what harvest waits for you ! " 
And on the maidens turned his twinkling eyes, 
That beamed a blessing with the playful words. 

Then Lars slipped nearer Brita, where she stood 
Withdrawn a little, underneath the trees. 
You heard the pastor," said he ; " would you next 
Put on the crown ? not you the harvest, nay, 
The reaper, rather ; and the grain is ripe." 
'A field," she answered, "may be ripe enough 
When half the heads are empty, and the stalks 
Are choked with cockle. I 've no mind to reap. 
Indeed, I know not what you mean : the speech 
The pastor uses suits not you nor me." 
She meant reproof, yet made reproof so sweet 
By feigned impatience, which betrayed itself, 
That Lars bent lower, murmured with quick breath: 
' Oh, take my meaning, Brita ! Give me one, — 
But one small word to say that you are kind, 
But one kind word to tell me you are free, 
And I not wholly hateful ! " " Lars ! " she cried, 
Her frank, sweet sympathy aroused, " not so! 
As friendly-kind as I can be, I am, 



LARS 269 

But free of 3 T ou, and all ; and that 's enough! 
You men would walk across the growing grain, 
And trample it because it is not ripe 
Before the harvest." Thereupon she smiled, 
Sent him one dewy glance that should have been 
Defiant, but a promise seemed ; then turned, 
And hastening, almost brushed the breast of Per. 
He caught her by the hands, that Viking's son, 
Whose fathers wore the eagle-helm, and stood 
With Frithiof at the court of Angantyr, 
Or followed fair-haired Harald to the East, 
Though fishing now but herring, cod, and bass, 
Not men and merchant-galleys : he was red 
With mead, no less than sun and briny air: 
He caught her by the hands, and said, as one 
Who gives command and means to be obeyed : 
" You '11 go to Ulvik, Brita, by the fiord ! 
Bjorn brings my boat; the wind is off the sea, 
But light as from a Bergen lady's fan : 
Say, then, you '11 go ! " 

The will within his words 

Struck Brita harshly. For a moment she 

Pondered refusal, then, with brightening face 

Turned suddenly, and cried to all the rest : 
" How fine of Per ! we need not climb the fell : 

He '11 bear us all to Ulvik by the fiord ; 

Bjorn brings his boat ; the wind is off the sea! " 

And all the rest, with roaring skoal to Per, 

Struck hands upon the offer ; only he 

For plan so friendly showed a face too grim. 

He set his teeth and muttered: " Caught this time, 

But she shall pay it! " till his discontent 

Passed, like a sudden squall that tears the sea, 

Yet leaves a sun to smile the billows down. 

His jovial nature, bred to change, was swayed 

By the swift consequence of Brita's whim, 

The grasp of hand, the clap of shoulder, clink 

Of brimming glass, and whispers overheard - 

Of "Luck to Per, and Bjorn, and all the boys 

That reap, but sow not, on the rolling fields ! " 

And Brita, too, no sooner punished him 

Than she relented, and would fain appease ; 

Whence, fluttering to and fro, she kept the plan 

Alive, yet made its kindness wholly Per's : 

Only, when earnestly to Lars she said : 
" You'll go with us ?" he answered sullenly : 
" I will not go : my way is o'er the fell." 

He did not quit them till they reached the strand, 

And on the stern-deck and the prow was piled 

The bright, warm freight; then chose a dangerous path, 

A rocky ladder slanting up the crags, 

And far aloft upon a foreland took 

His seat, with chin upon his clenching hands, 

To watch and muse,iin love and hate, alone. 



270 LARS 

But they slid off upon a wind that filled 

The sail, yet scarcely heeled the boat a-lee: 

They seemed to rest above a hanging sky 

'Twixt shores that went and shores that slowly came 

In silence, and the larger shadows fell 

From heaven-high walls, a darker clearness in 

The air above, the firmament below, 

Crossed by the sparkling creases of the sea. 

B j orn at the helm and Per to watch the wind, 

They scarcely sailed, but soared as eagle soars 

O'er Gousta's lonely peak with moveless plumes, 

That, level-set, cut the blue planes of air ; 

And out of stillness rose that sunset hymn 

Of Sicily, the sanctissima ! 

That swells and fluctuates like a sleepy wave. 

Thus they swam on to where the fiord is curved 

Around the cape, where through a southward cleft 

Some wicked sprite sends down his elfish flaws. 

So now it chanced : the vessel sprang, and leaned 

Before the sudden strain ; but Per and Bjorn 

Held the hard bit upon their flying steed, 

And laughing, sang : " Out on the billows blue 

You needs must dance, and on the billows blue 

You sleep, a babe, rocked by the billows blue ! " 

As suddenly the gust was over : then 

Found Per a seat by Brita. ' ' Did you fear ? " 

He said ; and she : " Who fears that sails with Per ? " 

" Nay then," he whispered, " never fear me more, 
As twice to-day : why give me all this freight, 
When so much less were so much more to me ?" 

" Since when were maidens free as fishermen ? 
Not since the days of Brynhild, I believe ; " 
She answered, sharply : "I was fain to sail, 
And place for me meant place for more beside." 

" Not in my heart," he said ; "it holds and keeps 
Thee only ; thou canst not escape my love ; " 
And tried to take her hand: she bending o'er 
The low, black bulwarks, saw a crimson spark 
Drop on the surface of the pale-green wave, 
And sink, surrounded by a golden gleam. 

" Oh, grandam's brooch! " she cried, and started up, 
Sat down again, and hid her face, and wept. 
Some there lamented as the loss were theirs, 
Some shook their heads in ominous dismay, 
But all agreed that, save a fish should bring 
The jewel in its maw (and tales declared 
The thing once happened), none would see it more. 
Said Guda Halstensdatter : "I should fear 
An evil, had I lost it." Thorkil cried: 

" Be silent, Guda! Loss is grief enough 
For Brita : would you frighten her as well ? 
There's many think that jewels go and come, 
Having some life or virtue of. their own 
That drives them from us or that brings them back. 
'T was so with my great-grandam's wedding-ring." 



LARS 271 

Now, how was that ? " all asked ; and Thorkil spake : 

Why, not a year had she been wedded, when 

The ring was gone : how, where, a mystery. 

It was a bitter grief, but nothing happed 

Save losses, ups and downs, that come to all ; 

Both took their lot in patience and in hope, 

And worked the harder when the luck was least. 

So from the moorland and the stony brake 

They won fresh fields ; and now, when came around 

The thirteenth harvest, and the grain was ripe 

On that new land, my grandsire, then a boy, 

One morn came leaping, shouting, from the field. 

High in his hand he held a stalk of wheat, 

And round the ripened ear, between the beards, 

Hung, like a miracle, the wedding-ring ! 

And father heard great-grandam say it shone 

So wonderful, she dropped upon her knees ; 

She thought God's finger touched it, giving back. 

Who knows what fish may pounce on Brita's brooch 

Before it reach the bottom of the fiord, 

And then, what fisher net the fish ? " Some there 

Began to smile at this, and Per's blue eyes 

Danced with a cheerful light, as, in the cove 

Of Ulvik entered, fell his sagging sail. 

No more spake Brita; homeward up the hill 

She walked alone, sobbing with grief and dread. 

The world goes round : the sun sets on despair, 

The morrow makes it hope. Each little life 

Thinks the great axle of the universe 

Turns on its fate, and finds impertinence 

In joy or grief conflicting with its own. 

Yet fate is woven from unnoted threads ; 

Each life is centred in the life of all, 

And from the meanest root some fibre runs 

Which chance or destiny may intertwine 

With those that feed a force or guiding thought, 

To rule the world : so goes the world around. 

And Brita's loss, that made all things seem dark, 

Was soon outgrieved : came Anders' wedding-day 

And Ragnil's, and the overshining joy 

Of these two hearts from others drove the shade. 

Forth from her home the ruddy bride advanced, 

Not fair, but made so by her bridal bliss, 

The tall crown on her brow, and in her hand 

The bursting nosegay : Anders, washed and sleeked, 

With ribbons on his hat, from head to foot 

Conscious of all he wore, each word he spake, 

And every action for the day prescribed, 

Stuck to her side. It was a trying time ; 

But when the strange truth was declared at last 

That they were man and wife, so greeted with 

The cries of flute and fiddle, crack of guns, 

And tossing of the blossom-brightened hats, 

They breathed more freely ; and the guests were glad 



272 LARS 

That this was over, since the festival 

Might now begin, and mirth be lord of all. 

In Ragnil's father, Halfdan's home, the casks 

Of mead were tapped, the Dantzig brandy served 

In small old glasses, and the platters broad, 

Heaped high with salmon, cheese, and caviar, 

Tempted and soothed before the heavier meal. 

No guest in duty failed ; and Per began — 

The liquor's sting, the day's infection warm 

Upon his blood — to fix his sweetheart's word, 

Before some wind should blow it otherwhere. 

Your hand, my Brita," stretching his, — "your hand 

For all the dances : see, my heels are light ! 

I have a right to ask you for amends, 

But ask it as a kindness." "Nay," she said, 

" You have no right ; but I will dance one dance 
With you, as any other." "Will you then ?" 
He cried, and caught her sharply by the wrist : 

"I'll not be ' any other,' do you hear ? 
I '11 be the one, the only one, whose foot 
Keeps time with yours, my heart the tune thereto ! " 
Then shouting comrades whirled him from her side, 
And Ragnil called the maids, to show her stores 
Of fine-spun linen, lavendered and cool 
In nutwood chests, her bed and canopy 
Painted with pictures of the King and Queen, 
And texts from Scripture, o'er the pillows curled 
Where she and Anders should that night repose. 
'They shut the door to keep the lads without, 
Then shyly stole away ; and Brita found 
Alone, among the garden bushes, Lars. 

His eyes enlarged and brightened as she came ; 
He said, in tones whose heartful sweetness made 
Her pulses thrill : "I will not bind you yet: 
Dance only first with me that sceter-dance 
You learned on Graafell : Nils will play the air. 
Then take your freedom, favor whom you will. 
I shall not doubt you, now and evermore." 
" But, Lars" — she said, then paused ; he would not wait 
The mirthful guests drew near. " I '11 keep you, then," 
He whispered ; "till I needs must let you go. 
This much will warm me on the windy fells, 
Make sunshine of the mists, melt frost in dew, 
And paint the rocks with roses." Could she turn 
From that brave face, those calm, confiding eyes ? 
Could she, in others' sight, reject the hand 
Now leading to the board ? If so, too late 
Decision came, for she had followed him, 
And sat beside him when the horns of mead 
Made their slow pilgrimage from mouth to mouth, 
And while the stacks of bread sank low, the haunch 
Of stall-fed ox diminished to the bone, 
Till multeberries, Bergen gingerbread, 
With wine of Spain, made daintier end of all. 
Then, like a congress of the blackbirds, held 



LARS 273 

In ancient tree-tops on October eves, 

The tables rang and clattered ; but, erelong, 

Brisk bauds bad stripped them bare, and, turning down 

The leaves, made high-backed settles by the wall. 

Through all the bustle and the din were heard 

The fiddle-strings of Xils, as one by one 

They chirped and squeaked in dolorous complaint, 

Until the bent ear and the testing bow 

Found them accordant : then a flourish came 

That scampered up and down the scale, and lapsed 

In one long note that hovered like a bird, 

Uncertain where to light ; but so not long : 

It darted soon, a lark above the fells, 

And spun in eddying measures. Here a pair, 

And there another, took the vacant floor, 

Then Lars and Brita, sweeping in the dance 

That whirled and paused, as if a mountain gust 

Blew them together, tossed, and tore apart. 

And ever, when the wild refrain came round, 

Lars flung himself and sidewards turned in air, 

Yet missed no beat of music when he fell. 
" By holy Olaf ! " gray-haired Halfdan cried: 
" There 's not a trick we knew in good old days, 

But he has caught it : so I danced myself." 

Upon the sweeping circles entered Per, 

Held back, at first, and partially controlled 

By them who saw the current of his wrath, 

And whitherward it set ; but now, when slacked 

The fiery pulses of the dance, he broke 

Through all, and rudely thrust himself on Lars. 
"Your place belongs to me," he hoarsely cried, — 
" Your place and partner ! " "Brita 's free to choose," 

Said Lars, " and may be bidden ; but this floor 

Is not your deck, nor are you captain mine : 

I think your throat has made your head forget." 

Lars spake the truth that most exasperates : 

His words were oil on flame, and Per resolved, 

So swayed by reckless anger, to defy 

Then, once, and wholly. " Deck or not," said he, 
" You know what right I mean : you stand where I 

Allow you not: I warn you off the field ! " 

Lars turned to Brita : "Does he speak for you ?" 

She shook her head, but what with shame and fear 

Said nothing: ""We have danced our soeter-dance," 

He further spake, "and now I go: when next 

We meet at feast, I claim another such." 
" Aye, claim it, claim ! " Per shouted ; " but you '11 first » 

Try knives with me, for blood shall run between 

Your words and will: where you go, I shall be." 
" So be it : bid your mother bring your shroud ! " 

Lars answered ; and he left the marriage house. 

The folk of Ulvik knew, from many a tale 

Of feud and fight, from still transmitted hates 

And old Berserker madness in their blood, 



274 LARS 



What issue hung : but whoso came between 

Marked that the mediation dwelt with her 

Who stood between : if she would choose, why then, 

The lover foiled forsooth must leave in peace 

The lover favored, — further strife were vain. 

But Lars was far upon the windy heights, 

And Per beyond the skerries on the sea, 

And Ragnil bustling busy as a wife, 

That might have helped ; while those to Brita came, 

More meddlesome than kind, who hurt each nerve 

They touched for healing. What could she, but cry 

In tears and anger : ' ' Shall I seek them out, 

Bestow myself on one, take pride for love, 

And forfeit thus all later pride in me ? 

Rather refuse them both, and on myself 

Turn hate of both : their knives, i' faith ! were dull 

Beside your cutting tongues ! " She vowed, indeed, 

In moonlit midnights, when she could not sleep, 

And either window framed a rival face, 

That seemed to wait, with set, reproachful eyes, 

To smile on neither, hold apart and off 

Their fatal kindness. She repel, that drew ? 

As if an open rose could will away 

Its hue and scent, a lily arm its stem 

With thorns, a daisy turn against the sun ! 

The fields were reaped ; the longer shadows thrown 

From high Hardanger and the eastern range 

Began to chill the vales : it was the time 

When on the meadow by the lonely lake 

Of Graven, from the regions round about 

The young men met to hold their wrestling-match, 

As since the days of Olaf they had done. 

There, too, the maids came and the older folk, 

Delighting in the grip of strength and skill, 

The strain of sinew, stubbornness of joint, 

And urge of meeting muscles. All the place 

Was thronged, and loud the cheers and laughter rang 

When some old champion from a rival vale 

Bent before fresher arms, and from his base 

Wrenched ere he knew, fell heavily to earth. 

Until the sun across the fir-trees laid 

His lines of level gold, they watched the bouts ; 

Then strayed by twos and threes toward the sound 

Of wassail in the houses and the booths. 

And Brita with her Ulvik gossips went. 

Once only, when a Lserdal giant brought 

Sore grief upon the men of Vik, she saw 

Or seemed to see, beyond the stormy ring, 

The shape of Lars ; but, scarce disquieted 

If it were he, or if the twain were there, 

(Since blood, she thought, must surely cool in time,) 

She followed to the house upon the knoll 

Where ever came and went, like bees about 

Their hive's low doorway, groups of merry folk. 



LARS 275 

A mellow dusk already filled the room ; 
The chairs were pushed aside, and on the stove, 
As on a throne of painted clay, sat Nils. 
Behold ! Lars waited there ; and as she reached 
The inner circle round the dancing-floor 
He moved to meet her, and began to say 
'Thanks for the last "* — when from the other side 
Strode Per. 

The two before her, face to face 
Stared at each other : Brita looked at them. 
All three were pale ; and she, with faintest voice, 
Remembering, counsel of the tongues unkind, 
Could only breathe: "I know not how to choose." 
"No need I" said Lars : "I choose for you," said Per. 
Then both drew off and threw aside their coats, 
Their broidered waistcoats, and the silken scarves 
About their necks ; but Per growled "All ! " and made 
His body bare to where the leathern belt 
Is clasped between the breast-bone and the hip. 
Lars did the same ; then, setting tight the belts, 
Both turned a little : the low daylight clad 
Their forms with awful fairness, beauty now 
Of life, so warm and ripe and glorious, yet 
So near the beauty terrible of Death. 
All saw the mutual sign, and understood ; 
And two stepped forth, two men with grizzled hair 
And earnest faces, grasped the hooks of steel 
In either s belt, and drew them breast to breast, 
And in the belts made fast each other's hooks. 
An utter stillness on the people fell 
"While this was done : each face was stern and strange 
And Brita, powerless to turn her eyes, 
Heard herself cry, and started : " Per, O Per ! " 

"When those two backward stepped, all saw the flash 
Of knives, the lift of arms, the instant clench 
Of hands that held and hands that strove to strike : 
All heard the sound of quick and hard-drawn breath, 
And naught beside ; but sudden red appeared, 
Splashed on the white of shoulders and of arms. 
Then, thighs entwined, and all the body's force 
Called to the mixed resistance and assault, 
They reeled and swayed, let go the guarding clutch, 
And struck out madly. Per drew back, and aimed 
A deadly blow, but Lars embraced him close, 
Reached o'er his shoulder and from underneath 
Thrust upward, while upon his ribs the knife, 
Glancing, transfixed the arm. A gasp was heard: 
The struggling limbs relaxed ; and both, still bound 
Together, fell upon the bloody floor. 

Some forward sprang, and loosed, and lifted them 
A little ; but the head of Per hung back, 
"With lips apart and dim blue eyes unshut, 
And all the passion and the pain were gone 



276 LARS 

Forever. ' ' Dead ! " a voice exclaimed ; then she, 

Like one who stands in darkness, till a blaze 

Of blinding lightning paints the whole broad world, 

Saw, burst her stony trance, and with a cry 

Of love and grief and horror, threw herself 

Upon his breast, and kissed his passive mouth, 

And loud lamented : ' ' Oh, too late I know 

I love thee best, my Per, my sweetheart Per ! 

Thy will was strong, thy ways were masterful ; 

I did not guess that love might so command ! 

Thou wert my ruler : I resisted thee, 

But blindly : Oh, come back! — I will obey." 

Within the breast of Lars the heart beat on, 

Yet faintly, as a wheel more slowly turns 

When summer drouth has made the streamlet thin. 

They staunched the gushing life ; they raised him up, 

And sense came back and cleared his clouded eye 

At Brita's voice. He tried to stretch his hand : 

" Where art thou, Brita ? It is time to choose : 
Take what is left of him or me ! " He paused : 
She did not answer. Stronger came his voice : 

" I think that I shall live : forget all this! 
'T was not my doing, shall not be again, 
If only thou wilt love me as I love." 

" I love thee ? " Brita cried ; " who murderest him 
I loved indeed ! Why should I wish thee life, 
Except to show thee I can hate instead ?" 
A groan so deep, so desperate and sad 
Came from his throat, that men might envy him 
Who lay so silent ; then they bore him forth, 
While others smoothed the comely limbs of Per. 
His mother, next, unrolled the decent shroud 
She brought with her, as ancient custom bade, 
To do him honor ; for man's death he died, 
Not shameful straw-death of the sick and old. 



BOOK II 

Lars lived, because the life within his frame 

Refused to leave it ; but his heart was dead, 

He thought, for nothing moved him any more. 

He spake not Brita's name, and every path 

Where he had scattered fancies of the maid 

Like seeds of flowers, but whence, instead, had grown 

Malignant briers, to clog and tear his feet, 

Was hated now : so, all that once seemed life, 

So bright with power and purpose, rich in chance, 

And dropping rest from every cloud of toil, 

Became a weariness of empty days. 

Thus, not to 'scape the blood-revenge for Per 
Which Thorsten vowed, his brother : not to shun 
The tongues and eyes of censure or reproach, 



LARS 277 

Or spoken pity, angering more than these ; 
But since each rock upon the lonely fell 
Kept echoes of her voice, each cleft of blue 
Where valleys wandered downward to the wave 
Held shadows of her form, each meadow-sod 
Her footprints, — all the land so filled with her, 
Once hope, delight, but desolation now, — 
Forth must he go, beyond his father's hearth, 
Beyond the vales, be\-ond the teeth of snow, 
The shores and skerries, till the world become 
Too wide for knowledge of his evil fate, 
Too strange for memory of his ruined love ! 

He recked not where ; but into passive moods 

Some spirit drops a leaven, to point anew 

Men's aimless forces. Was it only chance 

That now recalled a long-forgotten tale ? 

How Leif, his mother's grandsire, crossed the seas 

To those new lands the great Gustavus claimed : 

How, in The Key of old Calmar, their ship, 

A trooper he, with Printz the Governor, 

Sailed days and weeks ; the blue would never turn 

To shallower green, and landsmen moped in dread, 

Till shores grew up they scarce believed were such, 

Low-lying, fresh, as if the hand of God 

Had lately finished them. But farther on 

The curving bay to one broad river led, 

Where cabins nestled on their rising banks, 

With mighty woods, and mellow intervales, 

Inviting corn and cattle. Then rejoiced 

The Swedish farmers, and were set ashore: 

But on the level isle of Tinicum 

Printz built a fort, and there the trooper, Leif, 

Abode three years : and he was fain to tell, 

When wounds and age had crippled him, how fair 

And fruitful was the land, how full of sun 

And bountiful in streams, — and pity 't was 

The strong Norse blood could not have stocked it all ! 

Lars knew not why these stories should return 
To haunt his gloomy brain : but it was so, 
And on the current of his memory launched 
His thought, and followed ; then neglected will 
Awoke, and on the track of thought embarked, 
And soon his life was borne away from all 
It knew, and burst the adamantine ring 
Which bound its world within the greater world. 
As one who, wandering by the water-side, 
Steps in an empty boat, and sits him down, 
Not knowing that his step has loosed the chain, 
And drifts away, unwitting, on the tide, 
So he was drifted : no farewell he spake, 
But happy Llvik and the fiord and fell 
Passed from his eyes, and underneath his feet 
The world went round, until he found himself, 
Like one aroused from sleep, upon the hills 
That roll, the heavings of the boundless blue. 



278 LARS 

As unto Leif, his mother's grandsire, so 

To him it seemed the blue would never turn 

To shallower green, till shining fisher-sails 

Came, stars of land that rose before the land ; 

Then fresher shores and climbing river-banks, 

And broken woods and mellow intervales, 

With houses, corn, and cattle. There, perchance, 

He dreamed, the memory of Leif might bide 

Upon the level isle of Tinicum, 

Or farms of Swedish settlers : if 't were so, 

One stone was laid whereon to build a home. 

But when the vessel at the city's wharf 

Dropped anchor, and the bright new land was won, 

The high red houses and the sober throngs 

"Were strange to him, and strange the garb and speech. 

Awhile he lingered there ; until, outgrown 

The tongue's first blindness and the stranger's shame, 

His helpless craft was turned again to use. 

Then sought he countrymen, and, finding now 

Within the Swedish Church at Weccacoe 

No Norse but in the features, else all changed, 

He left and wandered down the Delaware 

Unto the isle of Tinicum ; and there 

Of all that fortress of the valiant Printz 

Some yellow bricks remained. The name of Leif 

Who should remember ? Do we call to mind, 

Years afterward, the clover-head we plucked 

Some morn of June, and smelled, and threw away ? 

But when we find a life erased and lost 

Beneath the multitude's unsparing feet, — 

A life so clearly beating yet for us 

In blood and memory, — comes a sad surprise : 

So Lars went onward, losing hope of good, 

To where, upon her hill, fair Wilmington 

Looks to the river over marshy meads. 

He saw the low brick church, with stunted tower, 

The portal-arches, ivied now and old, 

And passed the gate : lo ! there, the ancient stones 

Bore Norland names and dear, familiar words ! 

It seemed the dead a comfort spake : he read, 

Thrusting the nettles and the vines aside, 

And softly wept : he knew not why he wept, 

But here was something in the strange new land 

That made a home, though growing out of graves. 

Led by a faith that rest could not be far. 
Beyond the town, where deeper vales bring down 
The winding brooks from Pennsylvanian hills, 
He walked : the ordered farms were fair to see 
And fair the peaceful houses : old repose 
Mellowed the lavish newness of the land, 
And sober toil gave everywhere the right 
To simple pleasures. As by each he passed, 
A spirit whispered : " No, not there ! " and then 
His sceptic heart said : "Never anywhere ! " 



LARS 279 

The sun was low, when, with the valley's bend, 
There came a change. Two willow-fountains flung 
And showered their leafy streams before a house 
Of rusty stone, with chimneys tall and white; 
A meadow stretched below ; and dappled cows, 
Full-fed, were waiting for their evening call. 
The garden lay upon a sunny knoll, 
An orchard dark behind it, and the barn, 
"With wide, warm wings, a giant mother-bird, 
Seemed brooding o'er its empty summer nest. 
Then Lars upon the roadside bank sat down, 
For here was peace that almost seemed despair, 
So near his eyes, so distant from his life 
It lay : and while he mused, a woman came 
Forth from the house, no servant-maid more plain 
In her attire, yet, as she nearer drew, 
Her still, sweet face, and pure, untroubled eyes 
Spake gentle blood. A browner dove she seemed, 
Without the shifting iris of the neck, 
And when she spake her voice was like a dove's, 
Soft, even-toned, and sinking in the heart. 
Lars could not know that loss and yearning made 
His eyes so pleading ; he but saw how hers 
Bent on him as some serious angel's might 
Upon a child, strayed in the wilderness. 
She paused, and said : " Thou seemest weary, friend," 
But he, instead of answer, clasped his hands. 
The silent gesture wrought upon her mind. 
She marked the alien face ; then, with a smile 
That meant and made excuse for needful words, 
She said : " Perhaps thou dost not understand ? " 
" I understand," Lars answered; " you are good. 
Indeed, I 'm weary: not in hands and feet, 
But tired of idly owning them. I see 
A thousand fields where I could take my bread 
Nor stint the harvest, and a thousand roofs 
That shelter corners where my head might rest, 
Nor steal another's pillow ! " 

As to seek 

The meaning of his words, she mused a space. 

In that still land of homes, how should she guess 

What fancies haunt a homeless heart ? Yet his 

Was surely need : so, presently, she spake : 
14 Work only waits, I 've thought, for willing hands ; 

A meal and shelter for the night, we give 

To all that ask ; what more is possible 

Rests with my father." Lars arose and went 

Beside her, where the cows came loitering on 

With udders swelled, and meadow-scented breath, 

Through opened bars and up the grassy lane. 
44 Ho, Star ! " and "Pink! " he called them coaxingly 

In soft Xorse words : they stared as if they knew. 
14 See, lady !" then he cried : " the honest things 

Like him that likes them, over all the world." 

But " Nay," she said, " not 4 lady ' ! — call me Ruth : 



280 LARS 

My father's name is Ezra Mendenhall, 

And hither comes he : I will speak for thee/' 

So Lars was sheltered, and when evening fell, 
And all, around the clean and peaceful board, 
Kept the brief silence which is fittest prayer 
Before the bread is broken, he was filled 
With something calm which was akin to peace, 
With something restless, which was almost hope. 
The white-haired man with placid forehead sat 
And faced him, grave as any Bergen judge, 
Yet kindly; he the stranger's claim allowed, 
And ample space for hunger, ere he spake : 
" What, then, might be thy name V* " My name is Lars, 
The son of Thorsten, in the Norway land. 
My father said the blood of heathen kings 
Runs in our veins, but we are Christian men, 
Who work the more because of idle sires, 
And speak the truth, and try to live good lives." 

Lars ceased, as if a blow had closed his mouth, 
But Ezra said : "The name sounds heathenish, 
Indeed, yet hardly royal ; blood is naught to us, 
Yea, less than naught, or I, whose fathers served 
The third man Edward, and his kindly wife, 
Philippa, loved the vanities of courts 
And cast away the birthright of their souls, 
Were now, perchance, a worldly popinjay, 
The Lord forgetting and provoking Him 
Me to forget. But this is needless talk : 
Thy hands declare that thou art bred to work; 
Thy face, methinks, is truthful; if thy life 
Be good, I know not. I can trust no more 
Than knowledge justifies, and charity 
Bids us assume until the knowledge comes." 

" No more I ask," Lars answered ; "simple ways 
To me are home- ways : I can learn to serve, 
Because, when others served me, I was just." 

" Our ways are strange to thee," said Ezra; " thine 
Unsuitable, if here too long retained. 
The just in spirit find in outward things 
A voice and testimony, which may not 
Be lightly changed : what say est thou to this ? " 

" To change in mine ? Why, truly, 't were no change 
To do thy bidding, yet to call thee friend ; 
To use the speech of brethren, as at home; 
And, feigning not the faith that still may part, 
To bide in charity till knowledge comes, — 
So much, without a promise, I should give." 

"Thou speakest fairly," Ezra said ; " to me 
Is need of labor less than faithful will, 
But this includes the other : if thou stand 



LARS 281 

The easier test, the greater then may come. 
The man who feels his duty makes his own 
The beasts he tends or uses, and the fields, 
Though all may be another's." " Then," said Ruth, 
" My cows already must belong to Lars: 
His speech was strange, and yet they understood." 

So Lars remained. That night, beneath the roof, 

His head lay light ; the very wind that breathed 

Its low, perpetual wail among the boughs 

Sufficed to cheer him, and the one dim star 

That watched him from the highest heaven of heavens 

Made morning in his heart. Too soon passed off 

The exalted mood, too soon his rich content 

Was tarnished by the daily round of toil, 

And all things grown familiar ; yet his pride, 

That rose at censure for each petty fault 

Of ignorance, supported while it stung. 

And Ezra Mendenhall was just, and Ruth 

Serenely patient, sweetly calm and kind : 

So, month by month, the even days were born 

And died, the nights were drowned in deeper rest, 

And fields and fences, streams and stately woods, 

Fashioned themselves to suit his newer life, 

Till ever fainter grew those other forms 

Of fiord and fell, the high Hardanger range, 

And Romsdal's teeth of snow. Yea, Brita's eyes 

And Per's hot face he learned to hold away, 

Save when they vexed his helpless soul in dreams. 

The land was called Hockessin. O'er its hills, 
High, wide, and fertile, blew a healthy air: 
There was a homestead set wherever fell 
A sunward slope, and breathed its crystal vein, 
And up beyond the woods, at crossing roads, 
The heart of all, the ancient meeting-house ; 
And Lars went thither on an autumn morn. 
Beside him went, it happened, Abner Cloud, 
A neighbor; rigid in the sect, and rich, 
And it was rumored that he crossed the hill 
To Ezra's house, oftener than neighbor-wise. 
This knew not Lars : but Abner's eye, he thought, 
Fell not upon him as a friend's should fall, 
And Abner's tongue perplexed him, for its tone 
Was harsh or sneering when his words were fair. 
He spake from every quarter, as a man 
Who seeks a tender spot, or wound unhealed, 
And probes the surface which he seems to soothe 
Until some nerve betrays infirmity. 
This, only, were the two alone : if Ruth 
Came near, his face grew mild as curded milk, 
And unctuous kindness overflowed his lips 
Precise and thin, as who should godlier be ? 
Perhaps he wooed, but 't was a wooing strange, 
Lars fancied, or his heart were other stuff 
Than those are made of which can bless or slay. 



282 LARS 

It was a silent meeting. Here the men 
And there the women sat, the elder folk 
Facing the younger from their rising seats, 
With faces grave beneath the stiff, straight brim 
Or dusky bonnet. They the stillness breathed 
Like some high air wherein their souls were free, 
And on their features, as on those that guard 
The drifted portals of Egyptian fanes, 
Sat mystery : the Spirit they obeyed 
By voice or silence, as the influence fell, 
Was near them, or their common seeking made 
A spiritual Presence, mightier than the grasp 
Of each, possessed in reverence by all. 
But o'er the soul of Lars there lay the shade 
Of his own strangeness : peace came not to him. 
Awhile he idly watched the flies that crawled 
Along the hard, bare pine, or marked, in front, 
The close-cut hair and flaring lobes of ears, 
Until his mind turned on itself, and made 
A wizard twilight, where the shapes of life 
Shone forth and faded : subtler sense awoke, 
But dream-like first, and then the form of Per 
Became a living presence which abode ; 
And all the pain and trouble of the past 
Threatened like something evil yet to come. 
At last, that phantasm of his memory sat 
Beside him, and would not be banished thence 
By will or prayer : he lifted up his face, 
And met the cold gray eyes of Abner Cloud. 

The man, thenceforward, seemed an enemy, 
And Ruth, he scarce knew why, but all her ways 
So cheered and soothed, a power to subjugate 
The devil in his heart. But now the leaves 
Flashed into glittering jewels ere they fell ; 
The pastures lessened, and, when day was done 
Came quiet evenings, bare of tale and song, 
Such as beneath Norwegian rafters shook 
Tired lids awake ; and wearisome to Lars, 
Till Ruth, who noted, fetched the useless books 
Of school-girl days, and portioned him his task, 
Herself the teacher. Oft would Ezra smile 
To note her careful and unyielding sway. 
" Nay, now," he said ; "I thought our speech was plain, 
But thou dost hedge each common phrase with thorns, 
Like something rare : dost thou not make it hard ? " 
"A right foundation, father," she replied, 
" Makes easy building : thus it is in life. 
I teach thee, Lars, no other than the Lord 
Requires of all, through discipline that makes 
His goodness hard until it lives in us." 
With paler cheeks Lars turned him to his task, 
Thus innocently smitten ; but bis mind 
Increased in knowledge, till the alien tongue 
Obeyed the summons of his thought. So toil 
Brought freedom, and the winter passed away. 



LARS 283 

Where Lars was blind, the eyes of Abner Cloud 

Saw more than was. This school-boy giant drew, 

He fancied, like a rank and chance-sown weed 

Beside some wholesome plant, the strength away 

From his desire, of old and rightful root. 

"T was not that Ruth should love the stranger, — no! 

But woman's interest is lightly caught, 

So hers by Lars, that might have turned to him. 

Had he not worldly goods, and honest name, 

And birthright in the meeting ? Who could weigh 

Unknown with these deserts? — but gentleness 

Is blind, and goodness ignorant ; so he, 

By malice made sagacious, learned to note 

The large, strong veins that filled and rose, although 

The tongue was still, the clench of powerful hands, 

The trouble hiding in the gloomy eye, 

And wrought on these by cunning words. But most 

He played with forms of Scandinavian faith 

In that old time before King Olaf came, 

And made their huge, divine barbarities, 

Their strength and slaughter, fields of frost and blood, 

More hideous. " These are fables, thou wilt claim," 

It was his wont to say ; "but such must nurse 

A people false and cruel." 

Then would Lars 
Reply with heat : " Not so! but honest folk, instead, 
Too frank to hide the face of any fault, 
And free from all the evil crafts that breed 
In hearts of cowards ! " 

Ruth, it rarely chanced, 
Heard aught of this, but when she heard, her voice 
Came firm and clear : " Indeed, it is not good 
To drag those times forth from their harmless graves. 
Their ignorance and wicked strength are dead, 
And what of good they knew was not their own, 
But ours as well : this is our sole concern, 
To feed the life of goodness in ourselves 
And all. that so the world at last escape 
The darkness of our fathers far away." 

As when some malady within the frame 
Is planted, slowly tainting all the blood, 
And underneath the seeming healthy skin 
In secret grows till strong enough to smite 
With rank disorder, so the strife increased ; 
And Lars perceived the devil of his guilt 
Had made a darkness, where he ambushed lay 
And waited for his time. Against him rose 
The better knowledge, breeding downy wings 
Of prayer, yet shaken by mistrust and hate 
At touch of Abner's malice. Thus the hour, 
The inevitable, came. 



284 LARS 

A Sabbath morn 
Of early spring lay lovely on the land. 
Upon the bridge that to the barn's broad floor 
Led from the field, stood Lars : his eyes were fixed 
Upon his knife, and, as he turned the blade 
This way and that, and with it turned his thought, 
While musing if 't were best to cover up 
This witness, or to master what it told, 
Close to the haft he marked a splash of rust, 
And shuddered as he held it nearer. ' ' Blood, 
And doubtless human ! " spake a wiry voice, 
And Abner Cloud bent down his head to look. 
A sound of waters filled the ears of Lars 
And all his flesh grew chill : he said no word. 
" I have thy history, now," thought Abner Cloud, 
And in the pallid silence read but fear ; 
So thus aloud : "Thou art a man of crime, 
The proper offspring of the godless tribes, 
Who drank from skulls, and gnawed the very bones 
Of them they slew. This is thine instrument, 
And thou art hungering for its bloody use. 
Say, hast thou ever eaten human flesh V* 

Then all the landscape, house, and trees, and hills, 

Before the eyes of Lars, burned suddenly 

In crimson fire : the roaring of his ears 

Became a thunder, and his throat was brass. 

Yet one wild pang of deadly fear of self 

Shot through his heart, and with a mighty cry 

Of mingled rage, resistance, and appeal, 

He flung his arms towards heaven, and hurled afar 

The fatal knife. This saw not Abner Cloud : 

But death he saw within those dreadful eyes, 

And turned and fled. Behind him bounded Lars, 

The man cast off, the wild beast only left, 

The primal savage, who is born anew 

In every child. Not long had been the race, 

But Ezra Mendenhall, approaching, saw 

The danger, swiftly thrust himself between, 

And Lars, whose passion-blinded eyes beheld 

An obstacle, that only, struck him down. 

Then deadly hands he dashed at Abner's throat, 

But they were grasped : he heard the cry of Ruth, 

Not what she said : he heard her voice, and stood. 

She knew not what she said : she only saw 
The wide and glaring eyes suffused with blood, 
The stiff -drawn lips that, parting, showed the teeth, 
And on the temples every standing vein 
That throbbed, dumb voices of destroying wrath. 
The soul that filled her told her what to do : 
She dropped his hands and softly laid her own 
Upon his brow, then looked the devil down 
Within his eyes, till Lars was there again. 
Erelong he trembled, while, o'er all his frame 
A sweat of struggle and of agony 



LARS 285 

Brake forth, and from his throat a husky sob. 
He tried to speak, but the dry tongue refused ; 
He could but groan, and staggered toward the house, 
As walks a man who neither hears nor sees. 

With bloodless lips of fear gasped Abner Cloud: 
" A murderer ! " as Ezra Mendenhall 

Came, stunned, and with a wound across his brow. 
" Oh, never!" Ruth exclaimed; but she was pale. 

She bound her father's head ; she gave him drink ; 

She steadied him with arms of gentle strength, 

Then spake to Abner: " Now, I pray thee, go ! " 

No more : but such was her authority 

Of speech and glance, the spirit and the power, 

That he obeyed, and turned, and left the place. 

Then Ezra's strength came back; and " Ruth," he said, 
" I see thou hast a purpose : let me know ! " 
" I only feel," she answered, '• that a soul 

Is here in peril, but the way to help 

Is not made plain: the knowledge will be given." 
" I have no fear for thee, my daughter: do 

What seemeth good, and strongly brought upon 

Thy mind by plain direction of the Lord ! 

There is a power of evil in the man 

That might be purged, if once he saw the light." 

She left him, seated in the sunny porch : 
Within the house and orchard all was still, 
Nor found she Lars, at first. But she was driven 
By that vague purpose which was void of form, 
And climbed, at last, to where his chamber lay, 
Beneath the rafters. On the topmost step 
He sat, his forehead bent upon his knees, 
A bundle at his side, as when he came. 
He raised his head : Ruth saw his eyes were dull , 
His features cold and haggard, and his voice, 
When thus he spake to her, was hoarse and strange : 
" Thou need' st not tell me : I already know. 
I hope thou thinkest it is hard to me. 
I am a man of violence and blood, 
Not meet for thy pure company ; and now 
When unto peaceful ways my heart inclined, 
And thou hadst shown the loveliness of good, 
My guilt, not yet atoned, brings other guilt 
To drive me forth: and this disgrace is worst." 

Ruth stood below him where he sat : she laid 
One hand upon the hand upon his knee, 
And spake : " I judge thee not; I cannot know 
What grievous loss or strong temptation wrought ; 
But if, indeed, to good and peaceful ways 
Thy heart inclines, canst thou not wrestle with 
The Adversary ? This knowledge of thy guilt 
Is half -repentance : whole would make thee sound." 
" And then — and then " — his natural voice returned ; 



286 LARS 

" Then — pardon ? " " Pardon, now, from me and him, 
My father, — for I know his perfect heart, — 
Thou hast ; but couldst thou turn thy dreadful strength 
That so it lift, and change, and chasten thee ? " 

" If I but could ! " — he cried, and bowed again 
His forehead. "Wait !" she whispered, left him there, 
And sought her father. 

Now, when Ezra heard 
All this repeated, for a space he sat 
In earnest meditation. " Bid him come ! " 
He said, at last, and Ruth brought Lars to him. 
Upon the doubting and the suffering face 
The old man gazed ; then " Put thy bundle by ! " 
Came from his lips ; ' ' thou shalt not leave, to-day. 
Thy hands have done thee hurt ; if thou art just, 
One service do thyself, in following me. 
Come with us to the meeting : there the Lord 
Down through the silence of fraternal souls 
May reach His hand. We cannot guess His ways ; 
Only so much the inward Voice declares." 

But little else was said : upon them lay 

The shadow of an unknown past, the weight 

Of present trouble, the uncertainty 

Of what should come ; yet o'er the soul of Ruth 

Hung something happier than she dared to feel, 

And Lars, in silence, with submissive feet 

Followed, as one who in a land of mist 

Feels one side warmer, where the sun must be. 

Then, parted ere they reached the separate doors, 

Lars went with Ezra. Abner Cloud, within, 

Beheld them enter, and he marvelled much 

Such things could be. Straightway the highest seat 

Took Ezra, where the low partition-boards 

Sundered the men and, women. There alone 

Sat they whom most the Spirit visited, 

And spake through them, and gave authority. 

Then silence fell; how long, Lars could not know, 
Nor Ruth, for each was in a trance of soul, 
Till Ezra rose. His words, at first, were few 
And broken, and they trembled on his lips ; 
But soon the power and full conviction came, 
And then, as with Ezekiel's trumpet- voice 
He spake: " Lo! many vessels hath the Lord 
Set by the fount of Evil in our hearts. 
Here envy and false-witness catch the green, 
There pride the purple, lust the ruddy stream : 
But into anger runs the natural blood, 
And flows the faster as 't is tapped the more. 
Here lies the som'ce : the conquest here begins, 
Then meekness comes, good-will, and purity. 
Let whoso weigh, when his offence is sore, 
The Lord's offences, and his patience mete, 
Though myriads less in measure, by the Lord's ! 



LARS 287 

This yoke is easy, if in love ye bear. 

For none, the lowest, rather hates than loves ; 

But Love is shy, and Hate delights to show 

A brazen forehead ; 't is the noblest sign 

Of courage, and the rarest, to reveal 

The tender evidence of brotherhood. 

With one this sin is born, with other, that ; 

Who shall compare them ? — either sin is dark, 

But one redeeming Light is over both. 

The Evil that assails resist not ye 

With equal evil ! — else ye change to man 

The Lord within, whom ye should glorify 

By words that prove Him, deeds that bless like Him ! 

What spake the patient and the holy Christ ? 

Unto thy brother first be reconciled, 

Then bring thy gift ! and further : Bless ye them 

That curse you, and do good to them that hate 

And persecute, that so the children ye may be 

Of Him, the Father. Yea, His perfect love 

Renewed in us, and of our struggles born, 

Gives, even on earth, His pure, abiding peace. 

Behold, these words I speak are nothing new, 

But they are burned with fire upon my mind 

To help — the Lord permit that they may save!" 

Therewith he laid his hat aside, and all 

Beheld the purple welt across his brow, 

And marvelled. Thus he prayed: "Our God and Lord 

And Father, unto whom our secret sins 

Lie bare and scarlet, turn aside from them 

In holy pity, search the tangled heart 

And breathe Thy life upon its seeds of good ! 

Thou leavest no one wholly dark : Thou giv'st 

The hope and yearning where the will is weak, 

And unto all the blessed strength of love. 

So give to him, and even withhold from me 

Thy gifts designed, that he receive the more: 

Give love that pardons, prayer that purifies, 

And saintly courage that can suffer wrong, 

For these beget Thy peace, and keep Thee near!" 

He ceased ; all hearts were stirred ; and suddenly 
Amid the younger members Lars arose, 
Unconscious of the tears upon his face, 
And scarcely audible : " Oh, brethren here, 
He prayed for my sake, for my sake pray ye ! 
I am a sinful man : I do repent. 
I see the truth, but in my heart the lamp 
Is barely lighted, any wind may quench. 
Bear with me still, be helpful, that I live! " 
Then all not so much wondered but they felt 
The man's most earnest need ; and many a voice 
Responsive murmured: "Yea, I will! " and some, 
Whose brows were tombstones over passions slain, 
When meeting broke came up and took his hand. 



288 LARS 

The three walked home in silence, but to Lars 

The mist had lifted, and around him fell 

A bath of light ; and dimly spread before 

His feet the sweetness of a purer world. 

When Ezra, that diviner virtue spent 

Which held him up, grew faint upon the road, 

The arm of Lars became a strength to him ; 

Yet all he said, before the evening fell, 

Was : " Gird thy loins, my friend, the way is long 

And wearisome : haste not, but never rest ! " 

" I will not close mine eyes," said Lars to Ruth, 
And laid aside the book, No Gross, No Crown, 
She gave him as a comfort and a help ; 

" Till thou hast heard the tale I have to tell. 
Thou speakest truth, the knowledge of my sin 
Is half-repentance, yet the knowledge burns 
Like fire in ashes till it be confessed. 
Revoke thy pardon, if it must be so, 
When all is told : yea, speak to me no more, 
But I must speak ! " So he began, and spared 
No circumstance of love, and hate, and crime, 
The songs and dances which the Friends forbid, 
The bloody customs and the cries profane, 
Till all lay bare and horrible. And Ruth 
Grew pale and flushed by turns, and often wept, 
And, when he ceased, was silent. " Now, farewell!" 
He would have said, when she looked up and spake : 

u Thy words have shaken me : we read such tales, 
Nor comprehend, so distant and obscure : 
Thou makest manifest the living truth. 
Save thee, I never knew a man of blood : 
Thou shouldst be wicked, and my heart declares 
Thy gentleness: ah, feeling all thy sin, 
Can I condemn thee, nor myself condemn ? 
Thy burden, thus, is laid upon me. Pray 
For power and patience, pray for victory ! 
Then falls the burden, and my soul is glad." 

Lars saw what he had done. His limbs unstrung 

Gave way, and softly on his knees he sank, 

And all the passion of his nature bore 

His yearning upward, till in faith it died. 

He rose, at last; his face was calm and strong: 

Ruth smiled, and then they parted for the night. 

Yet Ezra's words were true : the way was long 

And wearisome. The better will was there, 

But not the trust in self ; for, still beside 

Those pleasant regions opening on his soul, 

Beat the unyielding blood, as beats afar 

The vein of lightning in a summer cloud. 

And, as in each severe community 

Of interests circumscribed, where all is known 

And roughly handled till opinions join, 

So, here were those who kindly turned to Lars, 



LARS 289 

And those who doubted, or declared him false. 

In this probation, Ruth became his stay : 

She knew and turned not, knew and yet believed 

As did no other, — hoping more than he. 

Meanwhile the summer and the harvest came. 

One afternoon, within the orchard, Ruth 

Gathered the first sweet apples of the year, 

That give such pleasure by their painted cheeks 

And healthy odor. Little breezes shook 

The interwoven flecks of sun and shade, 

O'er all the tufted carpet of the grass ; 

The birds sang near her, and beyond the hedge, 

Where stretched the oat-field broad along the hill, 

Were harvest voices, broken wafts of sound, 

That brought no words. Then something made her start ; 

She gazed and waited : o'er the thorny wall 

Lars leaped, or seemed to fly, and ran to her, 

His features troubled and his hands outstretched. 
" O Ruth!" he cried ; " I pray thee, take my hands! 

This power I have, at last : I can refrain 

Till help be 1 sought, the help that dwells in thee." 

She took his hands, and soon, in kissing palms, 

His violent pulses learned the beat of hers. 

Sweet warmth o'erspread his frame ; he saw her face, 

And how the cheeks flushed and the eyelids fell 

Beneath his gaze, and all at once the truth 

Beat fast and eager in the palms of both. 
" Take not away ; " he cried : "now, nevermore, 

Thy hands ! O Ruth, my saving angel, give 

Thyself to me, and let our lives be one ! 

I cannot spare thee : heart and soul alike 

Have need of thee, and seem to cry aloud : 
' Lo! faith and love and holiness are one! ' " 

But who shall paint the beauty of her eyes 

When they unveiled, and softly clung to his, 

The while she spake : " I think I loved thee first 

When first I saw thee, and I give my life, 

In perfect trust and faith, to these thy hands." 
" The fight is fought," said Lars ; " so blest by thee, 

The strength of darkness and temptation dies. 

If now the light must reach me through thy soul, 

It is not clouded : clearer were too keen, 

Too awful in its purity, for man." 

So into joy revolved the doubtful year, 
And, ere it closed, the gentle fold of Friends 
Sheltered another member, even Lars. 
The evidence of faith, in words and ways, 
Could none reject, and thus opinions joined, 
And that grew natural which was marvel first. 
Then followed soon, since Ezra willed it so, 
Seeing that twofold duty guided Ruth, 
The second marvel, bitterness to one 
Who blamed his haste, nor felt how free is fate, 
Whose sweeter name is love, of will or plan. 
And all the countrv-side assembled there, 



290 LARS 

One winter Sabbath, when in snow and sky 

The colors of transfiguration shone, 

Within the meeting-house. There Ruth and Lars 

Together sat upon the women's side, 

And when the peace was perfect, they arose. 

He took her by the hand, and spake these words, 

As ordered : " In the presence of the Lord 

And this assembly, by the hand I take 

Ruth Mendenhall, and promise unto her, 

Divine assistance blessing me, to be 

A loving and faithful husband, even 

Till death shall separate us." Then spake Ruth 

The same sweet words ; and so the twain were one. 



BOOK III 

Love's history, as Life's, is ended not 

By marriage : though the ignorant Paradise 

May then be lost, the world of knowledge waits, 

With ample opportunities, to mould 

Young Eve and Adam into wife and man. 

Some grace of sentiment expires, yet here 

The nobler poetry of life begins : 

The squire is knight, the novice takes the vow, 

Old service falls, new powers and duties join, » 

And that high Beauty, which is crown of all, 

No more a lightsome maid, with tresses free 

And mantle floating from the bosom bare, 

Confronts us now like holy Barbara, 

As Palma drew, or she, Our Lady, born 

On Melos, type of perfect growth and pure. I 

So Lars and Ruth beside each other learned 
What neither, left unwedded, could have won : 
He how reliant and how fond the heart 
Whose love seemed almost pity, she how firm 
And masterful the nature, which appealed 
There for support where hers had felt no strain ; 
And both, how solemn, sweet, and wonderful 
The life of man. Their life, indeed, was still, 
Too still for aught save blessing, for a time. 
All things were ordered : plenty in the house 
And fruitf ulness of field and meadow made 
Light labor, and the people came and went, 
According to their old and friendly ways. 
Within the meeting-house upon the hill 
Now Ezra oftener spake, and sometimes Lars, 
Fain to obey the spirit which impelled ; 
And what of customed phrase they missed, or tone, 
Unlike their measured chant, did he supply 
With words that bore a message to the heart. 

All this might seem sufficient ; yet to Ruth 
Was still unrest, where, unto shallow eyes 



LARS 291 

Dwelt peace ; she felt the uneasy soul of Lars, 
And waited, till his own good time should come. 
Yea, verily, he was happy : could she doubt 
The signs in him that spake the same in her ? 
Yea, he was happy : every day proclaimed 
The freshness of a blessing rebestowed, 
The conscious gift, unworn by time or use, 
And this was sweet to see ; yet he betrayed 
That wavering will, the opposite of faith, 
"Which comes of duty known and not performed. 
It seemed his lines of life were cast in peace, 
In green Hockessin, where Lars Thorstensen, 
A sound that echoed of Norwegian shores, 
Became Friend Thurston : all things there conspired 
To blot the Past, but in his soul it lived. 

Then, as his thoughts went back, his tongue revealed : 

He spake of winding fiord and windy fell, 

Of Ulvik's cottages and Graven's lake, 

And all the moving features of a life 

So strange to Ruth ; till she made bold to break, 

Through playful chiding, what was grave surmise : 
"I fear me, Lars, that thou art sick for home. 

Thy love is with me and thy memory far : 

Thou seest with half thy sight ; and in thy dreams 

I hear thee murmur in thine other tongue, 

So soft and strange, so good, I cannot doubt, 

If I but knew it ; but thy dreams are safe." 
** Nay, wife," he said ; " misunderstand them not! 

For dreams hold up before the soul, released 

From worldly business, pictures of itself, 

And in confused and mystic parables 

Foreshadow what it seeks. I do confess 

I love Old Norway's bleak, tremendous hills, 

Where winter sits, and sees the summer burn 

In valleys deeper than yon cloud is high: 

I love the ocean-arms that gleam and foam 

So far within the bosom of the land : 

It is not that. I do confess to thee 

I love the frank, brave habit of the folk, 

The hearts unspoiled, though fed from ruder times 

And filled with angry blood: I love the tales 

That taught, the ancient songs that cradled me, 

The tongue my mother spake, unto the Lord 

As sweet as thine upon the lips of prayer : 

It is not that." 

Then he perused her face 

Full earnestly, and drew a deeper breath. 
" My wife, my Ruth," his words came, low yet firm ; 
" Thou knowest of one who brake a precious box 

Of ointment, and refreshed the weary feet 

Of Him who pardoned her. But, had He given 

Not pardon only, had He stretched His arm 

And plucked, as from the vine of Paradise, 

All blessing and all bounty and all good, 

What then were she that idly took and used ? " 



292 LARS 

" I read tliy meaning," answered Ruth ; " speak on ! " 
" Am I not he that idly uses ? Are there not 
Here many reapers, there a wasting field ? 
In them the fierce inheritance of blood 
I overcame, is mighty still to slay ; 
For ancient custom is a ring of steel 
They know not how to snap. By day and night 
A powerful spirit calls me : ' Go to them ! ' 
What should mine answer to the spirit be ? " 

If there were aught of struggle in her heart, 
She hid the signs. A little pale her cheek, 
But with untrembling eyelids she upraised 
Her face to his, and took him by the hands : 
" Thy Lord is mine : what should I say to thee, 
Except what she, whose name I bear, ere yet 
She went to glean in Bethlehem's harvest-field, 
Said to Naomi : ' Nay, entreat me not 
To leave thee, or return from following thee ? ' 
Should not thy people, then, be mine, 
As mine are made thine own ? I will not fail : He calls 
On both of us who gives thee this command." 

So Ruth, erelong, detached her coming life 
From all its past, until each well-known thing 
No more was sure or needful, to her mind. 
Her neighbors, even, seemed to come and go 
Like half -existences ; her days, as well, 
Were clad with dream ; she understood the words, 
" I but sojourn among you for a time," 
And, from the duties which were habits, turned 
To brood o'er those unknown, awaiting her. 

But Ezra, when he heard their purpose, spake 
" Because this thing is very hard to me, 
I dare not preach against it ; but I doubt, 
Being acquainted with the heart of man. 
'T is one thing, Lars, to build thy virtue here, 
Where others urge the better will : but there, 
Alone, persuaded, ridiculed, assailed, 
Couldst thou resist, yet love them ? Nay, I know 
Thy power and conscience: Try them not too soon; 
Is all I ask. See, I am full of years, 
And thou, my daughter, thou, indeed a son, 
Stay me on either side : wait but awhile 
And ye are free, yea, seasoned as twin beams 
Of soundest oak, for lintels of His door." 

They patiently obeyed. The years went by, 

Until five winters blanched to perfect snow 

The old man's hair. Then, when the gusts of March 

Shook into life the torpid souls of trees, 

His body craved its rest. Pie summoned Lars, 

And meekly said: " I pray thee, pardon me 

That I have lived so long: I meant it not. 

Now I am certain that the end is near ; 



LARS 293 

And, noting as I must, the deep concern 

On both your minds, I fain would aid that work, 

The which, I see, ye mean to undertake." 

Then counsel wise he gave : it seemed his mind, 

Those five long years, had pondered all things well, 

Computed every chance and sought the best, 

Foresaw and weighed, foreboded and prepared, 

Until the call was made his legacy. 

At last he said : ' ' My sight is verily clear, 

And I behold your duty as yourselves ; " 

Then spake farewell with pleasant voice, and died. 

"When summer came, upon an English ship 

Sailed Lars and Ruth between the rich green shores 

That widened, sinking, till the land was drowned, 

And they were blown on rolling fields of blue. 

Blown backward more than on ; and evil eyes 

Of sailors on their sober Quaker garb 

Began to turn. " Our Jonah! " was the cry, 

When Lars was seen upon the quarter-deck, 

And one, a ruffian from the Dorset moors, 

Became so impudent and foul of tongue 

That Ruth was frightened, would have fled below, 

But Lars prevented her. Three strides he made, 

Then by the waistband and the neck he seized 

That brutish boor, and o'er the bulwarks held, 

Above the brine, like death for very fear. 
" Now, promise me to keep a decent tongue! " 

Cried Lars ; and he : "I promise anything, 

But let me not be lost ! " Thenceforth respect 

Those sailors showed to strength, though clad in peace. 
;< Now see I wherefore thou wert made so strong," 

Ruth said to him, and inwardly rejoiced ; 

And soon the mists and baffling breezes fled 

Before a wind that down from Labrador 

Blew like a will unwearied, night and day, 
•Across the desert of the middle sea. 

Out of the waters rose the Scilly Isles, 

Afar and low, and then the Cornish hills, 

And, floating up by many a valley-mouth 

Of Devon streams, they came to Bristol town. 

Awhile among their brethren they abode, 

For thus had Ezra ordered. There were some 

Concerned in trade, whose vessels to and fro 

From Hull across the German Ocean sailed, 

And touched Norwegian ports ; and Lars in those 

The old man said, must find his nearest stay. 

But soon it chanced that Avith a vessel came 

A man of Arendal, in Norway land, 

Known to the Friends as fair in word and deed, 

And well-inclined ; and Gustaf Hansen named. 

Norse tongue makes easy friendship : Lars and he 

Became as brothers in a little while, 

And, when his worldly charge was ordered, they 

Together all embarked for Arendal. 



294 LARS 

Calm autumn skies were o'er them, and the sea 
Swelled in un wrinkled glass : they scarcely knew 
How sped the voyage, until Lindesnaes, 
At first a cloud, stood fast, and spread away 
To flanking capes, with gaps of blue between ; 
Then rose, and showed, above the precipice, 
The firs of Norway climbing thick and high 
To wilder crests that made the inland gloom. 
In front, the sprinkled skerries pierced the wave ; 
Between them, slowly glided in and out 
The tawny sails, while houses low and red 
Hailed their return, or sent them fearless forth. 
"This is thy Norway, Lars; it looks like thee," 
Said Ruth : "it has a forehead firm and bold ; 
It sets its foot below the reach of storms, 
Yet hides, methinks, in each retiring vale, 
Delight in toil, contentment, love, and peace, — 
My land, my husband ! let me love it, too ! " 
So on their softened hearts the sun went down 
And rose once more ; then Gustaf Hansen came 
Beside them, pilot of familiar shores, 
And said : "To starboard, yonder, lies the isle 
As I described it ; here, upon our lee 
Is mainland all, and there the Nid comes down, 
The timber-shouldering Nid, from endless woods 
And wilder valleys where scant grain is grown. 
Now bend your glances as my finger points, — 
Lo! there it is, the spire of Arendal ! 
Our little town, as homely, kind, and dear, 
As some old dame, round whom her children's babes 
Cling to be petted, comforted, and spoiled. 
And here, my friends, shall ye with me abide 
And with my Thora, till the winter melts, 
Which there, beyond yon wall of slaty cloud, 
Possesses fell and upland even now. 
Too strange is Ruth to dare'those snowy wastes, 
Nor is there need : good Thora's heart will turn • 
To her, I know, as mine hath turned to Lars ; 
And Arendal is warmly -harbored, snug, 
And not unfriendly in the time of storms." 

They could not say him nay. The anchor dropped 
Before the town, and Thora, from the land, 
Tall, broad of breast, with ever-rosy cheeks 
O'er which the breezes tossed her locks of gray, 
Stretched arms of welcome ; and the ancient house, 
With massive beams and ample chimney-place, 
As in Hockessin, made immediate home. 
To Ruth, how sweetly the geraniums peeped 
With scarlet eyes across the window-sill ! 
How orderly the snowy curtains shone ! 
Familiar, too, the plainness and the use 
In all things ; presses of the dusky oak, 
Fair linen, store of healing herbs that smelled 
Of charity, and signs of forethought wise 
That justified the plenty of the house. 



LARS 295 

It was as Gustaf said : good Thora loved 
The foreign woman, taught and counselled her, 
Taking to heart their purpose, so that she 
Unconsciously received the truth of Friends. 
And Gustaf also, through the soul of Lars, 
To him laid bare, and all that blessing clear 
Obedience brings when speaks the inward voice, 
Believed erelong ; then others came to hear, 
Till there, in Arendal, a brotherhood 
Of earnest seekers for the light grew up, 
Before the hasty spring of northern lands 
Sowed buttercups along the banks of Md. 

But when they burst, those precious common flowers 

That not a meadow of the world can spare, 

Said Lars, one Sabbath, to the little flock : 

Here we have tarried long, and it is well ; 

But now we go, and it is also well. 

This much is blessing added unto those 

That went before; hence louder rings the call 

Which brought me hither, and I must obey. 

My path is clear, my duty strange and stern, 

The end thereof uncertain; it may be, 

My brethren, I shall never see ye more. 

Your love upholds me, and your faith confirms 

My purpose : bless me now, and bid farewell ! " 

Then Gustaf wept, and said: "Our brother, go! 

Yet thou art with us, and we walk with thee 

In this or yonder world, as bids the Lord." 

Their needful preparations soon were made : 

Two strong dun horses of the mountain breed, 

With hoofs like claws, that clung where'er they touched, 

L'nholstered saddles, leathern wallets filled 

With scrip for houseless ways, close-woven cloaks 

To comfort them upon the cloudy fells, 

And precious books, by Penn and Barclay writ 

And Woolman, — these made up their little store. 

The few and faithful went with them a space 

Along the banks of Md ; there first besought 

All power and light, and furtherance for the task 

Awaiting Lars : they knew not what it was, 

But what it was, they knew, was good : then all 

Gave hands and said farewell, and Lars and Ruth 

Rode boldly onward, facing the dark land. 

Across the lonely hills of Tellemark, 

That smiled in sunshine, went their earnest way, 

And by the sparkling waters of the Tind ; 

Then, leaving on the left that chasm of dread 

Where, under Gousta's base, the Riukan falls 

In winnowing blossoms, tendrilled vines of foam, 

And bursting rockets of the starry spray, 

They rode through forests into Hemsedal. 

The people marvelled at their strange attire, 

But all were kind ; and Ruth, to whom their speech 



296 LARS 

Was now familiar, found such ordered toil, 
Such easy gladness, temperate desire, 
That many doubts were laid : the spirit slept, 
She thought, and waited but a heartsome call. 
Then ever higher stood the stormy fells 
Against uncertain skies, as they advanced ; 
And ever grander plunged the roaring snow 
Of mighty waterfalls from cliff to vale : 
The firs were mantled in a blacker shade, 
The rocks were rusted as with ancient blood, 
And winds that shouted- or in wailing died 
Harried the upper fields, in endless wrath 
At finding there no man. 

The soul of Lars 
Expanded with a solemn joy ; but Ruth, 
Awed by the gloom and wildness of the land, 
Rode close and often touched her husband's arm; 
And when within its hollow dell they saw 
The church of Borgund like a dragon sit, 
Its roof all horns, its pitchy shingles laid 
Like serpent scales, its door a dusky throat, 
She whispered : " This the ancients must have left 
From their abolished worship : is it so ? 
This is no temple of the living Lord, 
That makes me fear it like an evil thing ! " 
" Consider not its outward form," said Lars, 
" Or mine may vex thee, for my sin outgrown. 
I would the dragon in the people's blood 
As harmless were ! " So downward, side by side, 
From ridges of the windy Fille Fell 
Unto the borders of the tamer brine, 
The sea-arm bathing Frithiof's home, they rode ; 
Then two days floated past those granite walls 
That mock the boatman with a softer song, 
And took the land again, where shadow broods, 
And frequent thunder of the tumbling rocks 
Is heard the summer through, in Naerodal. 
To Ruth the gorge seemed awful, and the path 
That from its bowels toiled to meet the sun, 
Was hard as any made for Christian's feet, 
In Bunyan's dream ; but Lars with lighter step 
The giddy zigzag scaled, for now, beyond, 
Kot distant, lay the Vossevangen vale, 
And all the cheerful neighborhood of home. 

At last, one quiet afternoon, they crossed 

The fell from Graven, and below them saw 

The roofs of Ulvik and the orchard-trees 

Shining in richer colors, and the fiord, 

A dim blue gloom between Hardanger heights, — 

The strife and peace,' the plenty and the need; 

And both were silent for a little space. 

Then Ruth : " I had not thought thy home so fair, 

Nor yet so stern and overhung with dread, 

It seems to draw me as a danger draws, 



LARS 297 

Yet gives me courage : is it well with thee ? " 
' That which I would, I know," responded Lars, 
' Not that which may be : ask no more, I pray ! " 

Then downward, weary, strangely moved, yet glad, 

They went, a wonder to the Ulvik folk, 

Till some detected, 'neath his shadowy brim, 

The eyes of Lars; and he was scarcely housed 

With his astonished kindred, ere the news 

Spread from the fountain, ran along the shore. 

For all believed him dead : in truth, the dead 

Could not have risen in stranger guise than he, 

Who spake as one they knew and did not know, 

Who seemed another, yet must be the same. 

His folk were kind: they owned the right of blood, 

Nor would disgrace it, though a half -disgrace 

Lars seemed to bring ; but in her strange, sweet self 

Ruth brought a pleasure which erelong was love. 

Her gentle voice, her patient, winning ways, 

Pure thought and ignorance of evil things 

That on her wedlock left a virgin bloom, 

Set her above them, yet her nature dwelt 

In lowliness : sister and saint she seemed. 

Soon Thorsten, brother of the slaughtered Per, 
Alike a stalwart fisher of the fiord, 
Heard who had come, and published unto all 
The debt of blood he meant to claim of Lars. 
' The coward, only, comes as man of peace, 
To shirk such payment ! " were his bitter words. 
And they were carried unto Lars : but he 
Spake firmly : "Well I knew what he would claim: 
The coward, knowing, comes not." Nothing more; 
Nor could they guess the purpose of his mind. 
In little Ulvik all the people learned 
What words had passed, and there were friends of both ; 
But Lars kept silent, walked the ways unarmed, 
And preached the pardon of an utmost wrong. 
Now Thorsten saw in this but some device 
To try his own forbearance : his revenge 
Grew hungry for an answering enmity, 
And weary of its shame ; and so, at last, 
He sent this message : "If Lars Thorstensen 
Deny not blood he spilled, and guilt thereof, 
Then let him meet me by the Graven lake," — 
On such a day. 

When came the message, Lars 
Spake thus to all his kindred: " I will go : 
I do deny not my blood-guiltiness. 
This thing hath rested on my soul for years, 
And must be met." Then unto Ruth he turned : 
' I go alone: abide thou with our kin." 
But she arose and answered : " Nay, I go! 
Forbid me not, or I must disobey, 
Which were a cross. I give thee to the Lord, 
His helpless instrument, to break or save ; 



298 LARS 

Think not my weakness shall confuse thy will ! " 
Lars laid his hand upon her head, and all 
Were strangely melted, though he spake no more, 
Nor then, nor on the way to Graven lake. 

Lo ! there were many gathered, kin of both, 
Or friends, or folk acquainted with the tale, 
And curious for its end. The summer sky 
Was beautiful above them, and the trees 
Stood happy, stretching forth forgiving arms ; 
Yet sultry thunder in the hearts of men 
Brooded, the menace of a rain of blood. 
Lars paused not when he came. He saw the face 
Of Thorsten, ruddy, golden-haired like Per's, 
Amid the throng, and straightway went to him 
And spake : "I come, as thou invitest me. 
My brother, I have shed thy brother's blood ; 
What wouldst thou I should do thee, to atone ? " 

" Give yours! " cried Thorsten, stepping back a pace. 

" That murderous law we took from heathen sires," 
Said Lars, " is guilt upon a Christian land. 
I do abjure it. Wilt thou have my blood, 
Nor less, I dare not lift a hand for thine." 

" You came not, then, to fight, though branded here 
A coward ? " 

" Nay, nor ever," answered Lars ; 

" But, were I coward, could I calmly bear 
Thy words ? " Then Thorkil, friend of Thorsten, cried : 

' ' These people, in their garments, I have heard, 
Put on their peace ; or else some magic dwells 
In shape of hat or color of the coat, 
To make them harmless as a browsing hare. 
That Lars we knew had danger in his eyes ; 
But this one, — why, uncover, let us see ! " 
Therewith struck off the hat. And others there 
Fell upon Lars, and tore away his coat, 
Nor ceased the outrage until they had made 
His body bare to where the leathern belt 
Is clasped between the breast -bone and the hip. 

Around his waist they buckled then a belt, 
And brought a knife, and thrust it in his hand. 
The open fingers would not hold : the knife 
Fell from them, struck, and quivered in the sod. 
Thorsten, apart, had also bared his breast, 
And waited, beautiful in rosy life. 
Then Thorkil and another drew the twain 
Together, hooked the belts of each, and strove 
Once more to arm the passive hand of Lars : 
In vain : his open fingers would not hold 
The knife, which fell and quivered in the sod. 
He looked in Thorsten's eyes ; great sorrow fell 



LARS 299 

Upon him, and a tender human love. 

14 1 did not this," he said ; " nor will resist. 
If thou art minded so, then strike me dead : 
But thou art sacred, for the blood I spilled 
Is in thy veins, my brother : yea, all blood 
Of all men sacred is in thee." His arms 
Hung at his side : he did not shrink or sway : 
His flesh touched Thorsten' s where the belts were joined, 
And felt its warmth. Then twice did Thorsten lift 
His armed hand, and twice he let it sink : 
An anguish came upon his face : he groaned, 
And all that heard him marvelled at the words ; 

" Have pity on me ; turn away thine eyes: 
I cannot slay thee while they look on me ! " 

" If I could end this bloody custom so, 
In all the land, nor plant a late remorse 
For what is here thy justice," answered Lars, 

" I could not say thee nay. Yet, if the deed 
Be good, thou shouldst have courage for the deed ! " 
Once more looked Thorsten in those loving eyes, 
And shrank, and shuddered, and grew deadly pale, 
Till, with a gasp for breath, as one who drowns 
Draws, when he dips again above the wave, 
He loosed the clutching belts, and sat him down 
And hid his face : they heard him only say : 

" 'T were well that I should die, for very shame ! " 
Lars heard, and spake to all : " The shame is mine, 
Whose coward heart betrayed me unto guilt. 
I slew my brother Per, nor sought his blood : 
Thou, Thorsten, wilt not mine ; I read thy heart. 
But ye, who trample on the soul of man 
In still demanding he shall ne'er outgrow 
The savage in his veins, through faith in Good, 
Who Thorsten rule, even as ye ruled myself, — 
I call ye to repent ! That God we left, 
White Balder, were more merciful than this : 
If one, henceforward, cast on Thorsten shame, 
The Lord shall smite him when the judgment comes 1 " 

Never before, such words in such a place 
Were preached by such apostle. Bared, as though 
For runes of death, while red Berserker rage 
Kindled in some, in others smouldered out, 
He raised his hand and pointed to the sky : 
Far off, behind the silent fells, there rolled 
A sudden thunder. Ruth, who all the while 
Moved not nor spake, stood forth, and o'er her face 
There came the glory of an opening heaven. 
Now that she knew the habit of the folk, 
She spake not ; but she clothed the form of Lars 
In silence, and the women, weeping, helped. 
Then Thorsten rose, and seeing her, he said : 
" Thou art his wife ; they tell me thou art good. 
I am no bloodier than thy husband was 
Before he knew thee : hast thou aught to say ? " 
She took his hand and spake, as one inspired : 



300 LARS 

" Thou couldst not make thyself a man of blood ! 
This is thy seed of blessing : let it grow ! 
Gladness of heart, and peace, and honored name 
Shall come to thee : the unrighteous, cruel law 
Is broken by thy hands, no less than his 
Who loves thee, and would sooner die than harm ! " 

" They speak the truth," said Thorsten ; "thou art good, 
And it were surely bitter grief to thee 
If I had slain him. Go ! his blood is safe 
From hands of mine." 

His words the most approved ; 
The rest, bewildered, knew not what to say. 
In these the stubborn mind and plastic heart 
Agreed not quickly, for the thing was strange, 
An olden tale with unforeboded end : 
They must have time. The crowd soon fell apart, 
Some faces glad, all solemn, and dispersed ; 
Except one woman, who, from time to time, 
Pressed forward, then, as with uncertain will, 
Turned back as often. Troubled was her face 
And worn : within the hollows of her eyes 
Dwelt an impatient sorrow, and her lips 
Had from themselves the girlish fulness pressed. 
Her hair hung negligent, though plenteous still ; 
And beauty that no longer guards itself, 
But listlessly beholds its ruin come, 
Made her an apparition wild and sad, 
A cloud on others' joy. 

Lars, as he left 
That field unsullied, saw the woman stand. 

" Brita ! " he cried; and all the past returned 
And all the present mixed with it, and made 
His mouth to quiver and his eyes to fill : 

"Unhappy Brita, and I made thee so ! 
Is there forgiveness yet for too much love 
And foolish faith, that brought us double woe ? 
I dare not ask it ; couldst thou give unasked ? " 
Her face grew hard to keep the something back 
Which softened her : " Make Per alive," she said, 

" One moment only, that he pardon me, 
And thou art pardoned ! else, I think, canst thou 
Bear silence, as I bear it from the dead. 
Oh, thou hast done me harm ! " But Ruth addressed 
These words to her: "I never did thee harm, 
Yet on my soul my husband's guilt to thee 
Is made a shadow : let me be thy friend ! 
Only a woman knows a woman's need." 

Lars understood the gesture and the glance 
Which Ruth then gave, and hastened on the path 
To join his kindred, leaving them alone. 
So Ruth by Brita walked, and spake to her 
In words whose very sound a comfort gave, 
Like some soft wind that o'er an arid land, 



LARS 301 

Unfelt at first, fans on with cooling wings 

Till all the herbage freshens, and the soil 

Is moist with dew ; and Brita's arid heart 

Thus opened : " Yea, all this is very well. 

So much thou knowest, being woman, — love 

Of man, and man's of thee, and both declared : 

But say, how canst thou measure misery 

Of love that lost its chances, made the Past 

One dumbness, and forever reckons o'er 

The words unspoken, which to both were sweet, 

The touch of hands that never binding met, 

The kisses, never given and never took, 

The hopes and raptures that were never shared, — 

Nay, worse than this, for she withheld, who knew 

They might have been, from him who never knew ! " 

Therewith her passion loosed itself in sobs, 

And on the pitying breast of Ruth she wept 

Her heart to calmness ; then, with less of pain, 

She told the simple story of her life : 

How, scarce two years before, her grandam died, 

Who would have seen her wedded, and was wroth, 

At times, in childish petulance of age, 

But kinder — 'twas a blessing! — ere she died, 

Leaving the cottage highest on the slope, 

Naught else, to Brita ; but her wants were few. 

The garden helped her, and the spotted cow, 

Now old, indeed : she span the winter through, 

And there was meal enough, and Thorsten gave 

Sometimes a fish, because she grieved for Per ; 

And, now the need of finery was gone, — 

For men came not a-wooing where consent 

Abode not, — she had made the least suffice. 

Yes, she was lonely : it was better so, 

For she must learn to live in loneliness. 

As much as unto Ruth she had not said 

To any woman, trusting her, it seemed, 

Without a knowledge, more than them she knew 
" Yea, trust me, Sister Brita!" Ruth replied, 
" And try to love : my heart is drawn to thee." 

Thereafter, many a day, went Ruth alone 

To Brita's cottage, vexing not with words 

That woke her grief, and silent as to Lars, 

Till Brita learned to smile when she appeared, 

And missed her when she came not. Now, meanwhile, 

The news of Lars, and Thorsten's foiled revenge 

Beside the lake of Graven, travelled far 

Past Vik and Vossevangen, o'er the fells, 

To all the homesteads of the Bergenstift ; 

And every gentle heart leaped up in joy, 

While those of restless old Berserker blood 

Beat hot with wrath. Who oversets old laws, 

They said, is dangerous ; and who is he 

That dares to preach, and hath not been ordained ? 

This thing concerns the ministers, they whom 

The State sets over us, with twofold power, 



302 LARS 

Divine and secular, to teach and rule. 

Then he, the shepherd of the Ulvik flock, 

Not now that good old man, but one whose youth 

More hateful showed his Christless bigotry, 

Made Sabbaths hot with his anathemas 

Of Lars, and stirred a tumult in the land. 

Some turned away, and all grew faint of heart, 

Seeing the foothold yield, and slip ; till Lars, 

Now shunned at home, and drawn by messages 

From Gustaf Hansen and the faithful souls 

In Arendal, said : " It is time to go." 

" Nay, tarry but a little while," spake Ruth. 
' ' I have my purpose here, as thou hadst thine : 

Grant me but freedom, for the end, I think, 

Is justified." 

Lars answered : " Have thy will ! " 

She summoned Brita, and the twain went down 

To pace the scanty strand beside the wave, 

Which, after storm, was quiet, though the gloom 

Of high, opposing mountains filled the fiord. 

Ruth spake of parting ; Brita answered not, 

But up and down in silence walked the strand, 

Then suddenly : "No message sendeth Lars ? 

My pardon he implored ; and that, to thee, 

I know, were welcome. Hadst thou asked, perchance, 

Perverse in sorrow, I should still withhold ; 

But thou departest, who hast been so kind, 

And I — ah, God ! what else have I to give ?" 

" The Lord requite thee, Brita!" Ruth exclaimed ; 

" The gift that blesses must be given unasked : 
What now remains is easy. Come with us, 
With Lars and me, and be our home thy home, 
All peace we win, all comfort, thine as ours ! " 

Once more walked Brita up and down the strand, 

Bowing her face upon her shielding hands, 

As if to muse, unwatched ; then stood, and seemed 

About to speak, when, with a shrilling cry 

She sprang, and fell, and grovelled on her knees, 

And thrust her fingers in the wet sea-sand. 

Ruth, all in terror, ran to her, and saw 

How, from the bones of some long-wasted fish 

An osprey dropped, or tempest beat to death, 

Caught in the breakers, and the drifted shells, 

And tangles of the rotting kelp, she plucked 

Something that sparkled, pressed it to her lips, 

And cried: " A sign ! a sign! 't is grandam speaks!" 

Then trembling rose, and flung herself on Ruth, 

And kissed her, saying : "I will follow thee. 

My heart assented, yet I had denied, 

But, ere I spake, the miracle was done ! 

Thy words give back the jewel lost with Per : 

Teil Lars I do forgive him, and will serve 



LARS 303 

Thee, Ruth, a willing handmaid, in thy home!" 

So Brita went with them to Arendal. 

There milder habits, easier government 

Of bench and pulpit for a while left all 

In peace : and not alone within the fold 

Of Friends came Brita, but the Lord inspired. 

She spake with power, as one by suffering taught 

A chastened spirit, and she wrought good works. 

She was a happy matron ere she died, 

And blessing came on all ; for, from that day 

Of doubt and anguish by the Graven lake, 

The Lord fulfilled in Ruth one secret prayer, 

And gave her children ; and the witness borne 

By Lars, the voice of his unsprinkled blood, 

Became a warning on Norwegian hills. 

Here, now, they fade. The purpose of their lives 
Was lifted up, by something over life, 
To power and service. Though the name of Lars 
Be never heard, the healing of the world 
Is in its nameless saints. Each separate star 
Seems nothing, but a myriad scattered stars 
Break up the Night, and make it beautiful. 
Gotha, Germany, 1872. 



LATEST LYRICS 



LATEST LYRICS 



1870-1878 



THE BURDEN OF THE DAY 



"Who shall rise and cast away, 
First, the Burden of the Day ? 
Who assert his place, and teach 
Lighter labor, nobler speech, 
Standing firm, erect, and strong, 
Proud as Freedom, free as Song ? 



Lo ! we groan beneath the weight 
Our own weaknesses create ; 
Crook the knee and shut the lip, 
All for tamer fellowship ; 
Load our slack, compliant clay 
With the Burden of the Day ! 



Higher paths there are to tread ; 
Fresher fields around us spread ; 
Other flames of sun and star 
Flash at hand and lure afar ; 
Larger manhood might we share, 
Surer fortune, — did^we dare ! 

IV 

In our mills of common thought 
By the pattern all is wrought : 
In our school of life, the man 
Drills to suit the public plan, 
And through labor, love, and play, 
Shifts the Burden of the Day. 



Ah, the gods of wood and stone 
Can a single saint dethrone, 
But the people who shall aid 
'Gainst the puppets they have made ? 
First they teach and then obey : 
'T is the Burden of the Day. 



Thunder shall we never hear 
In this ordered atmosphere ? 
Never this monotony feel 



Shattered by a trumpet's peal ? 
Never airs that burst and blow 
From eternal summits, know ? 

VII 

Though no man resent his wrong, 
Still is free the poet's song: 
Still, a stag, his thought may leap 
O'er the herded swine and sheep, 
And in pastures far away 
Lose the Burden of the Day ! 

1870. 



IN THE LISTS 

Could I choose the age and fortunate 
season 
When to be born, 
I would fly from the censure of your 
barren reason, 
And the scourges of your scorn : 
Could I take the tongue, and the land, 
and the station 
That to me were fit, 
I would make my life a force and an 
exultation, 
And you could not stifle it ! 

But the thing most near to the freedom 
I covet 
Is the freedom I wrest 
From a time that would bar me from 
climbing above it, 
To seek the East in the West. 
I have dreamed of the forms of a nobler 
existence 
Than you give me here, 
And the beauty that lies afar in the 
dateless distance 
I would conquer, and bring more 
near. 

It is good, undowered with the bounty 
of Fortune, 
In the sun to stand : 



3 o8 



LATEST LYRICS 



Let others excuse, and cringe, and 
importune, 
I will try the strength of my 
hand! 
If I fail, I shall fall not among the 
mistaken, 
Whom you dare deride : 
If I win, you shall hear, and see, and 
at last awaken 
To thank me because I defied ! 

1871. 



THE SUNSHINE OF THE GODS 



Who shall sunder the fetters, 
Who scale the invisible ramparts 
Whereon our nimblest forces 
Hurl their vigor in vain ? 
Where, like the baffling crystal 
To a wildered bird of the heavens, 
Something holds and imprisons 
The eager, the stirring brain ? 



Alas, from the fresh emotion, 
From thought that is born of feeling, 
From form, self -shaped, and slowly 
Its own completeness evolving, 
To the rhythmic speech, how long ! 
What hand shall master the tumult 
Where one on the other tramples, 
And none escapes a wrong ? 
Where the crowding germs of a thou- 
sand 
Fancies encumber the portal, 
Till one plucks a voice from the mur- 
murs 
And lifts himself into Song ! 

in 

As a man that walks in the mist, 
As one that gropes for the morning 
Through lengthening chambers of 

twilight, 
The souls of the poems wander 
Restless, and dumb, and lost, 
Till the Word, like a beam of morning, 
Shivers the pregnant silence, 
And the light of speech descends 
Like a tongue of the Pentecost ! 

IV 

Ah, moment not to be purchased, 

Not to be won by prayers, 



Not by toil to be conquered) 
But given, lest one despair, 
By the Gods in wayward kindness, 
Stay — thou art all too fair ! 
Hour of the dancing measures, 
Sylph of the dew and rainbow, 
Let us clutch thy shining hair ! 



For the mist is blown from the mind, 
For the impotent yearning is over, 
And the wings of the thoughts have 

power : 
In the warmth and the glow creative 
Existence mellows and ripens, 
And a crowd of swift surprises 
Sweetens the fortunate hour ; 
Till a shudder of rapture loosens 
The tears that hang on the eyelids 
Like a breeze-suspended shower, 
With a sense of heavenly freshness 
Blown from beyond the sunshine, 
And the blood, like the sap of the 

roses, 
Breaks into bud and flower. 



'Tis the Sunshine of the Gods, 
The sudden light that quickens, 
Unites the nimble forces, 
And yokes the shy expression 
To the thoughts that waited long, — 
Waiting and wooing vainly : 
But now they meet like lovers 
In the time of willing increase, 
Each warming each, and giving 
The kiss that maketh strong : 
And the mind feels fairest May-time 
In the marriage of its passions, 
For Thought is one with Speech, 
In the Sunshine of the Gods, 
And Speech is one with Song ! 



Then a rhythmic pulse makes order 
In the troops of wandering fancies: 
Held in soft subordination, 
Lo ! they follow, lead, or fly. 
The fields of their feet are endless, 
And the heights and the deeps are 

open 
To the glance of the equal sky : 
And the Masters sit no longer 
In inaccessible distance, 
But give to the haughtiest question, 
Smiling, a sweet reply. 



NOTUS IGNOTO 



3°9 



VIII 

Dost mourn, because the moment 
Is a gift beyond thy will, — 
A gift thy dreams had promised, 
Yet they gave to Chance its keeping 
And fettered thy free achievement 
"With the hopes they not fulfil? 
Dost sigh o'er the fleeting rapture, 
The bliss of reconcilement 
Of powers that work apart, 
Yet lean on each other still ? 

IX 

Be glad, for this is the token, 

The sign and the seal of the Poet : 

Were it held by will or endeavor. 

There were naught so precious in Song. 

Wait : for the shadows unlifted 

To a million that crave the sunshine, 

Shall be lifted for thee erelong. 

Light from the loftier regions 

Here unattainable ever, — 

Bath of brightness and beauty, — 

Let it make thee glad and strong ! 

Not to clamor or fury, 

Not to lament or yearning, 

But to faith and patience cometh 

The Sunshine of the Gods, 

The hour of perfect Song ! 



NOTUS IGNOTO 



Do you sigh for the power you dream 

of, 
The fair, evasive secret, 
The rare imagined passion, 
O Friend unknown ! 
Do you haunt Egyptian portals, 
Where, within, the laboring goddess 
Yields to the hands of her chosen 
The sacred child, alone 1 



Ah, pause ! There is consolation 

For you, and pride: 

Free of choice and worship, 

Spared the pang and effort, 

Nor partial made by triumph, 

The poet's limitations 

You lightly set aside: 

Revived, in your fresher spirit 

The buds of my thought may blossom, 

And the clew, from weary fingers 

Fallen, become your guide! 



The taker, even as the giver, 
The user as the maker, 
Soil as seed, and rain as sunshine, 
Alike are glorified ! 

in 

Loss with gain is balanced ; 
You may reach, when I but beckon ; 
You may drink, though mine the vin- 
tage, 
You complete what I begun. 
When at the temple-door I falter, 
You advance to the altar ; 
I but rise to the daybreak, 
You to the sun ! 
My goal is your beginning : 
My steeps of aspiration 
For you are won ! 

IV 

Hark ! the nightingale is chanting 
As if her mate but knew ; 
Yet the dream within me 
Which the bird-voice wakens, 
Takes from her unconscious 
Prompting, form and hue : 
So the song I sing you, 
Voice alone of my being, 
Song for the mate and the nestling. 
Finer and sweeter meaning 
May possess for you ! 
Lifting to starry summits, 
Filling with infinite passion, 
While the witless singer broodeth 
In the darkness and the dew ! 



Carved on the rock as an arrow 

To point your path, am I : 

A cloud that tells, in the heavens, 

Which way the breezes fly : 

A brook that is born in the meadows, 

And wanders at will, nor guesses 

Whither its waters hie : 

A child that scatters blossoms, 

Thoughtless of memoried odors, 

Or sweet surprises of color, 

That waken when you go by : 

A bee-bird of the woodland, 

That finds the honeyed hollows 

Of ancient oaks, for others, — 

Even as these, am I ! 



Accept, and enjoy, and follow, — 
Conquer wherein I yield ! 



3io 



LATEST LYRICS 



Make yours the bright conclusion, 

From me concealed ! 

Truth, to whom will possess it, 

Beauty to whom embraces, 

Song and its inmost secret, 

Life and its unheard music, 

To whom will hear and know them, 

Are ever revealed ! 



THE TWO HOMES 



My home was seated high and fair, 

Upon a mountain's side; 
The day was longest, brightest there ; 

Beneath, the world was wide. 
Across its blue, embracing zone 
The rivers gleamed, the cities shone, 
And over the edge of the fading rim 
I saw the storms in the distance dim, 

And the flash of the soundless thun- 
der. 



But weary grew the sharp, cold wine 
Of winds that never kissed, 

The changeless green of fir and pine, 
The gray and clinging mist. 

Above the granite sprang no bowers ; 

The soil gave low and scentless flowers ; 

And the drone and din of the water- 
fall 

Became a challenge, a taunting call : 
" 'T is fair, 't is fair in the valley ! " 



Of all the homesteads deep and far 

My fancy clung to one, 
Whose gable burned, a mellow star, 

Touched by the sinking sun. 
Unseen around, but not unguessed, 
The orchards made a leafy nest ; 
The turf before it was thick, I knew, 
And bees were busy the garden 
through, 

And the windows were dark with 



IV 

"T is happier there, below," I sighed: 
The world is warm and near, 

And closer love and comfort hide, 
That cannot reach me here. 

"Who there abides must be so blest 



He '11 share with me his sheltered nest, 
If down to the valley I should go, 
Leaving the granite, the pines and 
snow, 
And the winds that are keen as 
lances." 



I wandered down, by ridge and dell ; 

The way was rough and long : 
Though earlier shadows round me 
fell, 

I cheered them with my song. 
The world's great circle narrower 

grew, 
Till hedge and thicket hid the blue ; 
But over the orchards, near at hand, 
The gable shone on the quiet land, 

And far away was the mountain ! 

VI 

Then came the master : mournful- 
eyed 
And stern of brow was he. 
"Oh, planted in such peace ! " I cried, 

" Spare but the least to me ! " 
"Who seeks," he said, " this brooding 

haze, 
The tameness of these weary days ? 
The highway's dust, the glimmer and 

heat, 
The woods that fetter the young 
wind's feet, 
And hide the world and its beauty ? " 



He stretched his hand; he looked 
afar 
With eyes of old desire : 
I saw my home, a mellow star 

That held the sunset's fire. 
"But yonder home," he cried, "how 

fair ! 
Its chambers burn like gilded air ; 
I know that the gardens are wild as 

dreams, 
With the sweep of winds, the dash of 
streams, 
And the pines that sound as an an- 
them! 

VIII 

"So quiet, so serenely high 
It sits, when clouds are furled, 

And knows the beauty of the sky, 
The glory of the world ! 



IMPLORA PACE 



3" 



TVho there abides must be so blest 
He '11 share with me that lofty crest, 
If up to the mountain I should go, 
Leaving the dust and the glare be- 
low, 
And the weary life of the valley ! " 

1873. 



IRIS 



I am born from the womb of the cloud 

And the strength of the ardeut sun, 
"When the winds have ceased to be 
loud, 

And the rivers of rain to run. 
Then light, on my sevenfold arch, 

I swing in the silence of air, 
"While the vapors beneath me march 

And leave the sweet earth bare. 



For a moment, I hover and gleam 

On the skirts of the sinking storm ; 
And I die in the bliss of the beam 

That gave me being and form. 
I fade, as in human hearts 

The rapture that mocks the will : 
I pass, as a drearn departs 

That cannot itself fulfil! 



Bevond the bridge I have spanned 

The fields of the Poet unfold, 
And the riches of Fairyland 

At my bases of misty gold. 
I keep the wealth of the spheres 

Which the high Gods never have 
won; 
And I coin, from their airy tears, 

The diadem of the sun ! 



For some have stolen the grace 

That is hidden in rest or strife ; 
And some have copied the face 

Or echoed the voice of Life ; 
And some have woven of sound 

A chain of the sweetest control, 
And some have fabled or found 

The key to the human soul : 



But I, from the blank of the air 
And the white of the barren beam, 



Have wrought the colors that flare 
In the forms of a painter's dream. 

I gather the souls of the flowers, 
And the sparks of the gems, to me 

Till pale are the blossoming bowers, 
And dim the chameleon sea ! 

VI 

By the soul's bright sun, the eye, 

I am thrown on the artist's brain ; 
He follows me, and I fly ; 

He pauses, I stand again. 
O'er the reach of the painted world 

My chorded colors I hold, 
On a canvas of cloud impearled 

Drawn with a brush of gold ! 

VII 

If I lure, as a mocking sprite, 

I give, as a goddess bestows, 
The red, with its soul of might, 

And the blue, with its cool repose ; 
The yellow that beckons and beams, 

And the gentler children they bear 
For the portal of Art's high dreams 

Is builded of Light and Air! 

1872. 



IMPLORA PACE 

The clouds that stoop from yonder 
sky 
Discharge their burdens, and are 
free; 
The streams that take them hasten by, 
To find relief in lake and sea. 

The wildest wind in vales afar 

Sleeps, pillowed on its ruffled wings ; 

And song, through many a stormy 
bar, 
Beats into silence on the strings ! 

And love o'ercomes his young unrest, 
And first ambition's flight is o'er ; 

And doubt is cradled on the breast 
Of perfect faith, and speaks no 
more. 

Our dreams and passions cease to 
dare, 
And homely patience learns the 
part; 
Yet still some keen, pursuing care 
Forbids consent to brain and heart. 



312 



LATEST LYRICS 



The gift unreached, beyond the hand ; 

The fault in all of beauty won ; 
The mildew of the harvest land, 

The spots upon the risen sun ! 

And still some cheaper service claims 
The will that leaps to loftier call : 

Some cloud is cast on splendid aims, 
On power achieved some common 
thrall. 

To spoil each beckoning victory, 
A thousand pygmy hands are thrust ; 

And, round each, height attained, we 
see 
Our ether dim with lower dust. 

Ah, could we breathe some peaceful 
air 

And all save purpose there forget, 
Till eager courage learn to bear 

The gadfly's sting, the pebble's fret ! 

Let higher goal and harsher way, 
To test our virtue, then combine ! 

'T is not for idle ease we pray, 
But freedom for our task divine. 

1872. 



PENN CALVIN 



Seakch high and low, search up and 
down, 

By light of stars or sun, 
And of all the good folks of our 
town 

There 's like Penn Calvin none. 
He lightly laughs when all condemn, 

He smiles when others pray ; 
And what is sorest truth to them 

To him is idle play. 

ii 

"Penn Calvin, lift, as duty bids, 

The load we all must bear ! " 
He only lifts his languid lids, 

And says : ' ' The morn is fair ! " 
"Learn while you may! for Life is 
stern, 

And Art, alas ! is long." 
He hums and answers : "Yes, I 
learn 

The cadence of a song." 



"The world is dark with human 
woe ; 

Man eats of bitter food." 
"The world," he says, " is all aglow 

With beauty, bliss, and good ! " 
" To crush the senses you must strive, 

The beast of flesh destroy ! " 
" God gave this body, all alive, 

And every sense is joy ! " 

IV 

"Nay, these be heathen words we 
hear ; 

The faith they teach is flown, — 
A mist that clings to temples drear 

And altars overthrown." 
"I reck not how nor whence it 
came," 

He answers; " I possess : 
If heathens felt and owned the same, 

How bright was heathenesse ! " 



"Though you be stubborn to be- 
lieve, 

Yet learn to grasp and hold : 
There 's power and honor to achieve, 

And royal rule of gold ! " 
Penn Calvin plucked an open rose 

And carolled to the sky : 
" Shine, sun of Day, until its close, — 

They live, and so do I ! " 

VI 

His eyes are clear as they were kissed 

By some unrisen dawn ; 
Our grave and stern philanthropist 

Looks sad, and passes on. 
Our pastor scowls, the pious flock 

Avert their heads, and flee ; 
For pestilence or earthquake shock 

Less dreadful seems than he. 

VII 

But all the children round him cling, 

Depraved as they were born ; 
And vicious men his praises sing, 

"Whom he forgets to scorn. 
Penn Calvin's strange indifference 
gives 

Our folks a grievous care : 
He 's simply glad because he lives, 

And glad the world is fair ! 

1871. 



SUMMER NIGHT 



3i; 



SUMMER NIGHT 



VARIATIONS OX CERTAIN MELODIES 



I 



ANDANTE 

Under the full-blown linden and the 
plane. 
That link their arms above 
In mute, mysterious love, 
I hear the strain ! 
Is it the far postilion's horn, 
Mellowed by starlight, floating up 
the valley, 
Or song of love-sick peasant, 

borne 
Across the fields of fragrant corn, 
And poplar-guarded alley ? 
Now from the woodbine and the un- 
seen rose 
"What new delight is showered ? 
The warm wings of the air 
Drop into downy indolence and close, 

So sweetly overpowered : 
But nothing sleeps, though rest seems 
everywhere. 



II 



ADAGIO 

Something came with the falling 
dusk, 
Came, and quickened to soft un- 
rest: 
Something floats in the linden's 
musk, 
And throbs in the brook on the 
meadow's breast. 
Shy Spirit of Love, awake, awake! 
All things feel thee, 
And all reveal thee : 
The night was given for thy sweet 
sake. 
Toil slinks aside, and leaves to thee 

the land ; 
The heart beats warmer for the idle 
hand ; 
The timid tongue unlearns its 
wrong, 
And speech is turned to song ; 
The shaded eyes are braver ; 
And every life, like flowers whose 
scent is dumb 
Till dew and darkness come, 
Gives forth a tender savor. 



• O, each so lost in all, who may 
resist 
The plea of lips unkissed, 
Or, hearing such a strain, 
Though kissed a thousand times, kiss 
not again ! 



Ill 

APPASSIONATO 

Was it a distant flute 
That breathed, and now is mute? 
Or that lost soul men call the nightin- 
gale, 
In bosky coverts hidden, 
Filling with sudden passion all the 
vale? 
O, chant again the tale, 
And call on her whose name returns, 
unbidden, 
A longing and a dream, 

Adelai'da ! 
For while the sprinkled stars 
Sparkle, and wink, and gleam, 
Adelai'da ! 
Darkness and perfume cleave the un- 
known bars 
Between the enamored heart and 
thee, 
And thou and I are free, 
Adelai'da! 
Less than a name, a melody, art thou, 
A hope, a haunting vow ! 
The passion-cloven 
Spirit of thy Beethoven 
Claimed with less ardor than I claim 
thee now, 

Adelai'da ! 
Take form, at last: from these o'er- 
bending branches 
Descend, or from the grass arise ! 

I scarce shall see thine eyes, 
Or know what blush the shadow 
stanches ; 
But all my being's empty urn shall be 
Filled with thy mystery ! 



IY 

CAPRICCIOSO 

Nay, nay ! the ^longings ten- 
der, 
The fear, the marvel, and the 
mystery, 



H 



LATEST LYRICS 



The shy, delicious dread, the unre- 
served surrender, 
Give, if thou canst, to me ! 

For I would be, 
In this expressive languor, 
While night conceals, the wooed and 

not the wooer ; 
Shaken with supplication, keen as 
anger ; 
Pursued, and thou pursuer ! 
Plunder my bosom of its hoarded fire, 
And so assail me, 
That coy denial fail me, 
Slain by the mirrored shape of my de- 
sire! 
Though life seem overladen 
With conquered bliss, it only craves 

the more : 
Teach me the other half of passion's 
lore — 
Be thou the man, and I the 
maiden ! 

Ah ! come, 
While earth is waiting, heaven is 
dumb, 

And blossom-sighs 
So penetrate the indolent air, 
The very stars grow fragrant in the 
skies ! 

Arise, 
And thine approach shall make 
me fair, 
Thy borrowed pleading all too soon 
subdue me, 
Till both forget the part ; 
And she who failed to woo me 
So caught, is held to my impatient 
heart ! 

1873. 



THE GUESTS OF NIGHT 

I ride in a gloomy land, 

I travel a ghostly shore, — 
Shadows on either hand, 

Darkness behind and before; 
Veils of the summer night 

Dusking the woods I know; 
A whisper haunts the height, 

And the rivulet croons below. 

A waft from the roadside bank 
Tells where the wild-rose nods; 

The hollows are heavy and dank 
With the steam of the golden-rods: 



Incense of Night and Death, 

Odors of Life and Day, 
Meet and mix in a breath, 

Drug me, and lapse away. 

Is it the hand of the Past, 

Stretched from its open tomb, 
Or a spell from thy glamoury cast, 

O mellow and mystic gloom ? 
All, wherein I have part, 

All that was loss or gain, 
Slips from the clasping heart, 

Breaks from the grasping brain. 

Lo, what is left ? I am bare 

As a new-born soul, — I am naught; 
My deeds are as dust in air, 

My words are as ghosts of thought. 
I ride through the night alone, 

Detached from the life that seemed, 
And the best I have felt or known 

Is less than the least I dreamed. 

But the Night, like Agrippa's glass, 

Now, as I question it, clears; 
Over its vacancy pass 

The shapes of the crowded years ; 
Meanest and most august, 

Hated or loved, I see 
The dead that have long been dust, 

The living, so dead to me ! 

Place in the world's applause? 

Nay, there is nothing there ! 
Strength from unyielding laws ? 

A gleam, and the glass is bare. 
The lines of a life in song ? 

Faint runes on the rocks of time ? 
I see but a formless throng 

Of shadows that fall or climb. 

What else ? Am I then despoiled 

Of the garments I wove and 
wore ? 
Have I so refrained and toiled, 

To find there is naught in store ? 
I have loved, — I love ! Behold, 

How the steady pictures rise ! 
And the shadows are pierced with 
gold 

From the stars of immortal eyes. 

Nearest or most remote, 

But dearest, hath none delayed ; 
And the spirits of kisses float 

O'er the lips that never fade. 



CENTENNIAL HYMN 



3*5 



The Night each guest denies 
Of the hand or haughty brain, 

But the loves that were, arise, 
And the loves that are, remain. 
1871. 



SONNET 

Who, harnessed in his mail of Self, 

demands 
To be men's master and their sovran 

guide ? — 
Proclaims his place, and by sole right 

of pride 
A candidate for love and reverence 

stands, 
As if the power within his empty 

hands 
Had fallen from the sky, with all be- 
side, 
So oft to longing and to toil denied, 
That makes theleaders and the lords 

of lands ? 
He who would lead must first himself 

be led; 
"Who would be loved be capable of 

love 
Beyond the utmost he receives ; who 

claims 
The rod of power must first have 

bowed his head, 
And, being honored, honor what 's 

above : 
This know the men who leave the 

world their names. 

1872. 



TO MARIE 

WITH A COPY OF THE TRANSLATION 
OP FAUST 

This plant, it may be, grew from 
vigorous seed, 

"Within the field of study set by 
Song; 

Sent from its sprouting germ, per- 
chance, a throng 

Of roots even to that depth where 
passions breed ; 

Chose its own time, and of its place 
took heed ; 

Sucked fittest nutriment to make it 
strong : — 



But you from every wayward season's 
wrong 

Did guard it, showering, at its chang- 
ing need, 

Or dew of sympathy, or summer glow 

Of apprehension of the finer toil, 

And gave it, so, the nature that en- 
dures. 

Our secret this, the world can never 
know: 

You were the breeze and sunshine, I 
the soil : 

The form is mine, color and odor 
yours ! 
1875. 



CENTENNIAL HYTRIN 

O God of Peace! now o'er the world 
The armies rest, with banners furled : 
O God of Toil ! beneath thy sight 
The toiling nations here unite ; 
O God of Beauty, bend and see 
The Beautiful that shadows thee ! 

Our land, young hostess of the West, 
Now first in festal raiment dressed, 
Invites from every realm and clime 
Her sisters of the elder time, 
And bare of shield, ungirt by sword, 
Bids welcome to her bounteous board. 

Thy will, dear Father, gave to each 
The force of hand, the fire of speech ; 
Thy guidance led from low to high, 
Made failure still in triumph die, 
And set for all, in fields apart. 
The oak of Toil, the rose of Art ! 

What though, within thy plan sub- 
lime, 
Our eras are the dust of time, 
Y'et unto later good ordain 
This rivalry of heart and brain, 
And bless, through power and wisdom 

won, 
The peaceful cycle here begun ! 

Let each with each his bounty spend, 
Now knowledge borrow, beauty lend ! 
Let each in each more nobly see 
Thyself in him, his faith in Thee : 
All conquering power Thy gift divine, 
All glory but the seal of Thine 1 

February, 1876. 



316 



LATEST LYRICS 



THE SONG OF 1876 



Waken, voice of the Land's Devotion ! 

Spirit of freedom, awaken all ! 
Ring, ye shores, to the Song of Ocean, 
Rivers, answer, and mountains, 
call ! 
The golden day has come : 
Let every tongue be dumb, 
That sounded its malice or murmured 
its fears ; 

She hath won her story ; 
She wears her glory ; 
We crown her the Land of a Hundred 
Years ! 



Out of darkness and toil and danger 
Into the light of Victory's day, 
Help to the weak, and home to the 
stranger, 
Freedom to all, she hath held her 
way! 
Now Europe's orphans rest 
Upon her mother-breast : 
The voices of Nations are heard in 
the cheers ; 

That shall cast upon her 
New love and honor, 
And crown her the Queen of a Hun- 
dred Years ! 



North and South, we are met as bro- 
thers : 
East and West, we are wedded as 
one! 
Right of each shall secure our mo- 
ther's ; 
Child of each is her faithful son ! 
We give Thee heart and hand, 
Our glorious native Land, 
For battle has tried thee, and time en- 
dears : 

We will write thy story, 
And keep thy glory, 
As pure as of old for a Thousand 
Years ! 

1876. 



IMPROVISATIONS 



Through the lonely halls of the night 
My fancies fly to thee : 



Through the lonely halls of the night, 

Alone, I cry to thee. 

For the stars bring presages 
Of love, and of love's delight : 

Let them bear my messages 
Through the lonely halls of the night ! 

In the golden porch of the morn 

Thou com'st anew to me : 
In the golden porch of the morn, 

Say, art thou true to me ? 

If dreams have shaken thee 
With the call thou canst not scorn, 

Let Love awaken thee 
In the golden porch of the morn ! 



II 

The rose of your cheek is precious ; 

Your eyes are warmer than wine ; 
You catch men's souls in the meshes 

Of curls that ripple and shine — 
But, ah ! not mine. 

Your lips are a sweet persuasion ; 

Your bosom a sleeping sea ; 
Your voice, with its fond evasion, 

Is a call and a charm to me ; 
But I am free ! 

As the white moon lifts the waters, 

You lift the passions, and lead ; 
As a chieftainess proud with slaugh- 
ters, 
You smile on the hearts that bleed: 
But I take heed I 



III 

Come to me, Lalage ! 

Girl of the flying feet, 

Girl of the tossing hair 

And the red mouth, small and sweet: 

Less of the earth than air, 

So witchingly fond and fair, 

Lalage ! 

Touch me, Lalage ! 

Girl of the soft white hand, 

Girl of the low white brow 

And the roseate bosom band ; 

Bloom from an orchard bough 

Less downy-soft than thou, 

Lalage! 

Kiss me, Lalage ! 

Girl of the fragrant breath, 



IMPROVISATIONS 



3*7 



Girl of the sun of May ; 

As a bird that nutters in death, 

My fluttering pulses say : 

If thou be Death, yet stay, 

Lalase! 



IV 

What if I couch in the grass, or list- 
lessly rock on the waters ? 

If in the market I stroll, sit by the 
beakers of wine ? 

Witched by the fold of a cloud, the 
flush of a meadow in blos- 
som, 

Soothed by the amorous airs, touched 
by the lips of the dew ? 

First must be color and odor, the 
simple, unmingled sensation, 

Then, at the end of the year, apples 
and honey and grain. 

You, reversing the order, your barren 
and withering branches 

Vainly will shake in the winds, mine 
hanging heavy with gold! 



Though thy constant love I share, 

Yet its gift is rarer ; 
In my youth I thought thee fair ; 

Thou art older and fairer ! 

Full of more than young delight 
Now day and night are ; 

For the presence, then so bright, 
Is closer, brighter. 

In the haste of youth we miss 

Its best of blisses: 
Sweeter than the stolen kiss, 

Are the granted kisses. 

Dearer than the words that hide 

The love abiding, 
Are the words that fondly chide, 

When love needs chiding. 

Higher than the perfect song 
For which love longeth, 

Is the tender fear of wrong, 
That never wrongeth. 

She whom youth alone makes dear 
May awhile seem nearer : 

Thou art mine so many a year. 
The older, the dearer! 



VI 



A grass-blade is my warlike lance, 

A rose-leaf is my shield ; 
Beams of the sun are, every one 

My chargers for the field. 

The morning gives me golden steeds, 
The moon gives silver-white ; 

The stars drop down, my helm to 
crown. 
When I go forth to fight. 

Against me ride in iron mail 

The squadrons of the foe : 
The bucklers flash, the maces crash, 

The haughty trumpets blow. 

One touch, and all, with armor cleft, 

Before me turn and yield. 
Straight on I ride : the world is wide ; 

A rose-leaf is my shield ! 

Then dances o'er the waterfall 

The rainbow, in its glee ; 
The daisy sings, the lily rings 

Her bells of victory. 

So am I armed where'er I go, 
And mounted night or day : 

Who shall oppose the conquering rose, 
And who the sunbeam slay? 



VII 

The star o' the morn is whitest, 
The bosom of dawn is brightest ; 

The dew is sown, 

And the blossom blown 
Wherein thou, my Dear, delightest. 

Hark, I have risen before thee, 

That the spell of the day be o'er thee ; 

That the flush of my love 

May fall from above, 
And, mixed with the moon, adore thee ! 

Dark dreams must now forsake thee, 
And the bliss of thy being take thee ! 

Let the beauty of morn 

In thine eyes be born, 
And the thought of me awake thee ! 

Come forth to hear thy praises, 
Which the wakening world upraises ; 
Let thy hair be spun 
With the gold o' the sun, 
And thy feet be kissed by the daisies! 



31* 



LATEST LYRICS 



VIII 

Near in the forest 

I know a glade ; 
Under the tree-tops 

A secret shade ! 

Vines are the curtains, 
Blossoms the floor ; 

Voices of waters 
Sing evermore. 

There, when the sunset's 

Lances of gold 
Pierce, or the moonlight 

Is silvery cold, 

Would that an angel 

Led thee to me — 
So, out of loneliness 

Love should be ! 

Never the breezes 

Should lisp what we say, 
Never the waters 

Our secret betray ! 

Silence and shadow, 
After, might reign ; 

But the old life be ours 
Never again ! 



IX 

What if we lose the seasons 
That seem of our happiest choice, 

That Life is fuller of reasons 
To sorrow than rejoice, 

That Time is richer in treasons, 
And Hope has a faltering voice ? 

The dreams wherewith we were 
dowered 
Were gifts of an ignorant brain ; 
The truth has at last overpowered 
The visions we clung to in vain : 
But who would resist, as a coward. 
The knowledge that cometh from 
pain? 

For the love, as a flower of the meadow, 
The love that stands firm as a tree — 

For the stars that have vanished in 
shadow, 
The daylight, enduring and free — 

For a dream of the dim El Dorado, 
A world to inhabit have we ! 



Heart, in my bosom beating 
Fierce, as a power at bay ! 
Ever thy rote repeating 
Louder, and then retreating, 
Who shall thy being sway? 

Over my will and under, 

Equally king and slave, 
Sometimes I hear thee thunder, 
Sometimes falter and blunder 
Close to the waiting grave ! 

Oft, in the beautiful season. 

Kestless thou art, and wild ; 
Oft, with never a reason, 
Turnest and doest me treason, 

Treating the man as a child ! 

Cold, when passion is burning, 
Quick, when I sigh for rest, 
Kindler of perished yearning, 
Curb and government spurning, 
Thou art lord of the breast ! 



XI 

Fill, for we drink to Labor ! 

And Labor, you know, is Prayer : 
I '11 be as grand as my neighbor 
Abroad, and at home as bare ! 
Debt, and bother, and hurry! 

Others are burdened so : 
Here 's to the goddess Worry, 
And here's to the goddess 
Show! 

Reckless of what comes after, 
Silent of whence we come : 
Splendor and feast and laughter 
Make the questioners dumb. 
Debt, and bother, and hurry ! 

Nobody needs to know : 
Here's to the goddess Worry, 
And here's to the goddess 
Show! 

Fame is what you have taken, 
Character 's what you give : 
When to this truth you waken, 
Then you begin to live ! 
Debt, and bother, and hurry 

Others have risen so : 
Here's to the goddess Worry, 
And here 's to the goddess 
Show ! 



YOUTH 



319 



Honor 's a thing for derision, 

Knowledge a thing reviled ; 
Love is a vanishing vision, 
Faith is the toy of a child ! 
Debt, and bother, and hurry ! 

Honesty 's old and slow . 
Here 's to the goddess Worry, 
And here's to the goddess 
Show ! 

1872-1875. 



MARIGOLD 

Homely, forgotten flower, 
Under the rose's bower, 

Plain as a weed, 
Thou, the half-summer long, 
Waitest and waxest strong, 
Even as waits a song 

Till men shall heed. 

Then, when the lilies die, 
And the carnations lie 

In spicy death, 
Over thy bushy sprays 
Burst with a sudden blaze 
Stars of the August days, 

With Autumn's breath. 

Fain would the calyx hold ; 
But splits, and half the gold 

Spills lavishly : 
Frost, that the rose appalls, 
Wastes not thy coronals, 
Till Summer's lustre falls 

And fades in thee. 

1876. 



WILL AND LAW 

Will, in his lawless mirth, 

Cried: "Mine be the sphere of 

Earth! 
Mine be the hills and seas, 
Night calm and morning breeze, 
Shadowed and sun-lit hours, 
Passions, delights, and powers, 
Each in its turn to choose, 
All to reject or use — 
Thus myself to fulfil, 
For I am Will!" 

Nature, with myriad mouth, 
Answered from "North and South: 



Back to the nest again, 
Dream of thy idle brain ! 
Eyes shall open, and see 
Power attained through me 
Mine the increasing days, 
Mine the delight that stays, 
Service from each to draw - 
For I am Law ! " 

1876. 



TRUE LOVE'S TIME OF DAY 

WnEN shall I find you, sweetheart, 
That shall be and must be mine ? 

I seek, though the world divides us, 
And I send you the secret sign. 

There 's blood in the veins of morn- 
ing, 

So fresh it may well deceive, 
When man goes forth as Adam, 

And woman awaits him as Eve. 

There 's an elvish spell in twilight 
When the bats of Fancy fly, 

And sense is bound by a question, 
And Fate by the quick reply. 

And the moon is an old enchantress, 
With her snares of glimmer and 
shade, 

That have ever been false and fatal 
To the dreams of man and maid. 

But I '11 meet you at noonday, sweet- 
heart, 

In the billowy fields of grain, 
When the sun is hot for harvest, 

And the roses athirst for rain. 

With the daylight's truth on your 
forehead, 
And the daylight's love in your 
eye, 
I'll kiss you without a question. 
And you '11 kiss me without reply. 

1877. 



YOUTH 

Child with the butterfly, 
Boy with the ball, 

Youth with the maiden — 
Still I am all. 



320 



LATEST LYRICS 



Wisdom of manhood 
Keeps the old joy; 

Conquered illusions 
Leave me a boy. 

Falsehood and baseness 
Teach me but this : 

Earth still is beautiful, 
Being is bliss. 

Locks to my temples 
Hoary may cling ; 

'T is but as daisies 
On meadows of spring. 

1876. 



THE IMP OF SPRINGTIME 

Over the eaves where the sunbeams 
fall 
Twitters the swallow ; 
I hear from the mountains the cataract 
call: 
Follow, oh, follow ! 

Buds on the bushes and blooms on the 
mead 
Swiftly are swelling; 
Hark! the Spring whispereth : "Make 
ye with speed 
Ready my dwelling." 

Out of the tremulous blue of the air 

Calling before her, 
Who was it bade me "Awake and 
prepare, 

Thou mine adorer ! " 

"Leave me," I said ; "I have known 
thee of old, 
Love the annoyer, 
Arming, at last, with thine arrows of 
gold, 
Time, the Destroyer." 

"Follow," he laughed, "where the 
bliss of the earth 
Wooes thee, compelling; 
Yet in the Spring, and her thousand- 
fold birth, 
I, too, am dwelling." 

Out of the buds he was peeping, and 
sang 
Soft with the swallow ; 



Yea, and he called where the cataract 
sprang : 

Follow, oh, follow ! 
Yain to defy, or evade, or, in sooth, 

Bid him to leave me ! 
But his deception is dearer than truth : 

Let him deceive me ! 

1878. 



A LOYER'S TEST 

I sat to-day beneath the pine 

And saw the long lake shine. 
The wind was weary, and the day 

Sank languidly away 
Behind the forest's purple rim: 
The sun was fair for me, I lived for 
him! 

I did not miss you. All was sweet, 

Sky, earth, and soul complete 
In harmony, which could afford 
No more, nor spoil the chord. 
Could I be blest, and you afar, 
Were other I, or you, than what we are ? 

The sifted silver of the night 

Rained down a strange delight ; 
The moon's moist beams on meadows 
made 
Pale bars athwart the shade, 
And murmurs crept from tree to tree, 
Mysterious whispers — not from you 
to me! 

I stirred the embers, roused the 
brand 
And mused : on either hand 
The pedigree of human thought 

Sang, censured, cheered, or taught. 
Pausing at each Titanic line, 
I caught no echo of your soul to mine ! 



At last, when life recast its form 

To passive rest and warm, 
Ere the soft, lingering senses cease 

In sleep's half -conscious peace, 
The wish I might have fashioned 
died 
In dreams that never brought you to 
my side ! 

Farewell ! my nature's highest stress 
Mine equal shall possess. 



A FRIEND'S GREETING 



321 



'T is easier to renounce, or wait, 

Haply, the perfect fate. 
My coldness is the haughty fire 
That naught consumes except its full 
desire ! 

1874. 



TO MY DAUGHTER 

Learn to live, and live to learn, 
Ignorance like a fire doth burn, 
Little tasks make large return. 

In thy labors patient be, 
Afterward, released and free, 
Nature will be bright to thee. 

Toil, when willing, groweth less ; 
Always play " may seem to bless, 
Yet the end is weariness. 

Live to learn, and learn to live, 
Only this content can give ; 
Reckless joys are fugitive ! 

1872. 



A FRIEND'S GREETING 

TO J. G. WHITTD3R, FOR HIS SEVEN- 
TIETH BIRTHDAY 

Snow-bound for earth, but summer- 
souled for thee, 
Thy natal morning shines : 
Hail, Friend and Poet. Give thy 
hand to me, 
And let me read its lines ! 

For skilled in Fancy's palmistry 
am I, 
When years have set their crown ; 
TVhen Life gives light to read its 
secrets by, 
And deed explains renown. 

So, looking backward from thy seven- 
tieth year 
On service grand and free, 
The pictures of thy spirit's Past are 
clear, 
And each interprets thee. 

I see thee, first, on hills our Aryan sires 
In Time's lost morning knew, 



Kindling, as priest, the lonely altar- 
fires 
That from Earth's darkness grew. 

Then, wise with secrets of Chaldaean 
lore, 

In high Akkadian fane ; 
Or pacing slow by Egypt's river-shore, 

In Thothmes' glorious reign. 

I hear thee, wroth with all iniquities 
That Judah's kings betrayed, 

Preach from Ain-Jidi's rock thy God's 
decrees, 
Or Mamre's terebinth shade. 

And, ah! — most piteous vision of the 
Past, 

Drawn by thy being's law, 
I see thee, martyr, in the arena cast, 

Beneath the lion's paw. 

Yet, afterwards, how rang thy sword 
upon 
The Paynim helm and shield ! 
How shone with Godfrey, and at As- 
kalon, 
Thy white plume o'er the field ! 

Strange contradiction ! — where the 
sand-waves spread 
The boundless desert sea, 
The Bedouin spearmen found their 
destined head, 
Their dark-eyed chief — in thee ! 

And thou wert friar in Cluny's saintly 
cell, 
And Skald by Norway's foam, 
Ere fate of Poet fixed thy soul, to 
dwell 
In this New England home. 

Here art thou Poet, — more than war- 
rior, priest; 
And here thy quiet years 
Yield more to us than sacrifice or 
feast, 
Or clash of swords or spears. 

The faith that lifts, the courage that 
sustains, 
These thou wert sent to teach : 
Hot blood of battle, beating in thy 
veins, 
Is turned to gentle speech. 






322 



LATEST LYRICS 



Not less, but more, than others hast 
thou striven ; 
Thy victories remain : 
The scars of ancient hate, long since 
forgiven, 
Have lost their power to pain. 

Apostle pure of Freedom and of Right, 
Thou had'st thy one reward : 

Thy prayers were heard, and flashed 
upon thy sight 
The Coming of the Lord ! 

Now, sheathed in myrtle of thy tender 
songs, 
Slumbers the blade of truth ; 
But Age's wisdom, crowning thee, 
prolongs 
The eager hope of Youth ! 

Another line upon thy hand I trace, 

All destinies above: 
Men know thee most as one that loves 
his race, 

And bless thee with their love ! 

1877. 



PEACH-BLOSSOM 



Nightly the hoar-frost freezes 
The young grass of the field, 
Nor yet have blander breezes 

The buds of the oak unsealed : 
Not yet pours out the pine 
His airy resinous wine ; 
But over the southern slope, 
In the heat and hurry of hope, 
The wands of the peach-tree first 
Into rosy beauty burst : 
A breath, and the sweet buds ope ! 
A day, and the orchards bare, 
Like maids in haste to be fair, 
Lightly themselves adorn 
With a scarf the Spring at the door 
Has sportively Hung before, 
Or a stranded cloud of the morn ! 



What spirit of Persia cometh 
And saith to the buds, "Unclose! 

Ere ever the first bee hummeth, 
Or woodland wild flower blows ? 

What prescient soul in the sod 

Garlands each barren rod 



With fringes of bloom that speak 
Of the baby's tender breast, 
And the boy's pure lip impressed, 
And the pink of the maiden's cheek ? 
The swift, keen Orient so 
Prophesies as of old, 
While the apple's blood is cold, 
Remembering the snow. 



Afar, through the mellow hazes 
Where the dreams of June are 
stayed, 
The hills, in their vanishing mazes, 

Carry the flush, and fade ! 
Southward they fall, and reach 
To the bay and the ocean beach, 
Where the soft, half -Syrian air 
Blows from the Chesapeake's 
Inlets and coves and creeks 
On the fields of Delaware! 
And the rosy lakes of flowers, 
That here alone are ours, 
Spread into seas that pour 
Billow and spray of pink 
Even to the blue wave's brink, 
All down the Eastern Shore ! 



Pain, Doubt, and Death are over ! 

Who thinks, to-day, of toil ? 
The fields are certain of clover, 

The gardens of wine and oil. 
What though the sap of the North 
Drowsily peereth forth 
In the orchards, and still delays ? 
The peach and the poet know 
Under the chill the glow, 
And the token of golden days ! 



What fool, to-day, would rather 

In wintry memories dwell ? 
What miser reach to gather 

The fruit these boughs foretell ? 
No, no ! — the heart has room 
For present joy alone, 
Light shed and sweetness blown, 
For odor and color and bloom ! 
As the earth in the shining sky, 
Our lives in their own bliss lie; 
Whatever is taught or told, 
However men moan and sigh, 
Love never shall grow cold, 
And Life shall never die ! 

1876. 



MY PROLOGUE 



323 



ASSYRIAN NIGHT-SONG 



There is naught, on either hand, 
But the moon upon the sand. 
Pale and glimmering, far and dim, 
To the Desert's utmost rim, 
Flows the inundating light 
Over all the lands of Night. 
Bel, the burning lord, has fled : 
In her blue, uncurtained bed, 
Ishtar, bending from above, 
Seeks her Babylonian love. 
Silver-browed, forever fair, 
Goddess of the dusky hair 
And the jewel-sprinkled breast, 
Give me love, or give me rest ! 



I have wandered lone and far 
As the ship of Izdubar, 
When the gathered waters rose 
High on Nizir's mountain snows, 
Drifting where the torrent sped 
Over life and glory dead. 
Hear me now ! I'stretch my hands 
From the moon-sea of the sands 
Unto thee, or any star 
That was guide to Izdubar ! 
Where the bulls with kingly heads 
Guard the way to palace-beds, 
Once I saw a woman go, 
Swift as air and soft as snow, 
Making swan and cypress one, 
Steel and honey, night and sun, — 
Once of death I knew the sting : 
Beauty queen — and I not king ! 

in 

Where the Hanging Gardens soar 
Over the Euphrates' shore, 
And from palm and clinging vine 
Lift aloft the Median pine, 
Torches flame and wine is poured, 
And the child of Bel is lord ! 
I am here alone with thee, 
Ishtar, daughter of the Sea, 
Who of woven dew and air 
Spread'st an ocean, phantom-fair, 
With a slow pulse beating through 
Wave of air and foam of dew. 
As I stand, I seem to drift 
With its noiseless fall and lift, 
While a veil of lightest lawn, 
Or a floating form withdrawn, 



Or a glimpse of beckoning hands 
Gleams and fades above the sands. 



Day, that mixed my soul with men, 

Has it died forever, then ? 

Is there any world but this ? 

If the god deny his bliss, 

And the goddess cannot give, 

What are gods, that men should 

live ? 
Lo ! the sand beneath my feet 
Hoards the bounty of its heat, 
And thy silver cheeks I see 
Bright with him who burns for thee. 
Give the airy semblance form, 
Bid the dream be near and warm ; 
Or, if dreams but flash and die 
Asa mock to heart and eye, 
Then descend thyself, and be, 
Ishtar, sacred bride to me ! 

1876. 



MY PROLOGUE 



If heat of youth, 't is heat suppressed 
That fills my breast : 

The childhood of a voiceless lyre 
Preserves my fire. 

I chanted not while I was young; 

But ere age chill, I liberate my tongue ! 



Apart from stormy ways of men, 
Maine's loneliest glen 

Held me as banished, and unheard 
I saved my word : 

I would not know the bitter taste 

Of the crude fame which falls to them 
that haste. 



On each impatient year I tossed 

A holocaust 
Of effort, ashes ere it burned, 

And justly spurned. 
If now I own maturer days, 
I know not: dust to me is passing 
praise. 

IV 

But out of life arises song, 

. Clear, vital, strong, — 



3 2 4 



LATEST LYRICS 



The speech men pray for when they 

pine, 
The speech divine 
No other can interpret : grand 
And permanent as time and race and 

land. 



I dreamed I spake it : do I dream, 

In pride supreme, 
Or, like late lovers, found the bride 

Their youth denied, 
Is this my stinted passion's flow ? 
It well may be ; and they that read 
will know. 

1874. 



GABRIEL 



Once let the Angel blow ! — 

A peal from the parted heaven, 

The first of seven ! 

For the time is come that was foretold 

So long ago ! 

As the avalanche gathers, huge and 

cold, 
From the down of the harmless snow, 
The years and" the ages gather and hang 
Till the day when the word is spoken : 
When they that dwell in the end of 

time 
Are smitten alike for the early crime 
As the vials of wrath are broken ! 



Yea, the time hath come ; 

Though Earth is rich, her children are 

dumb! 
Ye cry : Beware 
Of the dancer's floating hair, 
And the cymbal's clash, and the sound 

of pipe and drum ! 
But the Prophet cries : Beware 
Of the hymn unheard, the unanswered 

prayer ; 
For ignorance is past, 
And knowledge comes at last, 
And the burden it brings to you how 

can ye bear ? 



Again let the Angel blow ! 
The seals are loosened that seemed to 
bind 



The Future's bliss and woe ! 

For a shrinking soul, an uncertain 

mind, 
For eyes that see, but are growing 

blind, 
Your landmarks fade and change : 
The colors to-day you borrow 
Take another hue to-morrow ; 
The forms of your faith are wild and 

strange ! 
Walking, you stagger to and fro : 
So, let the Angel blow ! 

IV 

Ah, shall the Angel blow ? 
Something must have remained, 
Something fresh and unstained, 
Sprung from the common soil where 

the virtues grow : 
Nay, it is not so ! 

Art succumbs to the coarser sense, 
Greed o'ercometh sweet abstinence ; 
Of vices young men talk, 
In scarlet your women walk, 
And the soul of honor that made you 

proud, 
The loftier grace your lives avowed, 
Are a passive corpse and a tattered 

shroud : 
What you forget, can your children 

know? 
So, let the Angel blow ! 



Yes, let the Angel blow ! 

A peal from the parted heaven, 

The first of seven ; — 

The warning, not yet the sign, of 

woe! 
That men arise 
And look about them with wakened 

eyes, 
Behold on their garments the dust and 

slime, 
Refrain, forbear, 

Accept the weight of a nobler care 
And take reproach from the fallen 

time! 

1874. 



THE LOST CARYATID 

When over Salamis stands Homer's 
moon, 
And from the wasted wave 



THE LOST CARYATID 



325 



Of spent Ilissus falls no liquid croon, 
But tears that wet a grave ; 

When on Pentelicus the quarried 
scars 
Are dusk as dying stars ; 

When Attica's gray olives blend and, 
gleam 
Like sea-mists o'er the plain ; 
And, islanded in Time's eternal stream, 

Only Athene's fane 
Shines forth, when every light of 
heaven must kiss 
Art's one Acropolis: 

Then, unto him — the modern Hellenes 
say — 
In whom old dreams survive; 
For whom the force of each immortal 
day 
Earth knew, is yet alive — 
To him who waits and listens there 
alone, 
Kises a strange, sweet moan. 

The voice of broken marble, the com- 
plaint 
Of beauty nigh despair, 
In the thick wilderness of years grown 
faint 
For lack of rite and prayer, 
Since all perfection, making her sub- 
lime, 
Provoked her evil time. 

It floats around the Panathenaic frieze 

Till every triglyph sings, 
While up from Dionysian chairs the 
breeze 
A murmurous answer brings ; 
But most it gathers voice, and rests 
upon 
The spoiled Erechtheion. 

There the white architrave that fronts 
the east 
Lightly five sisters hold 
As blossom-baskets at a bridal feast, 

Or jars of Samian gold : 
Each proud and pure, and still a 
glorious wraith 
Of Beauty wed to Faith ! 

The sixth has vanished, from the ser- 
vice torn, 
Long since, by savage hands, 



And keeps dumb vigil where the misty 
morn 
Creeps o'er Cimmerian lands; 
While the3 r , in pallid lip and dew- 
damp cheek 
Lament, and seem to speak : 

"Where art thou, sister? Thee, the 
sparkling day, 
The moonbeam finds no more, 
Save in some hall where darker gods 
decay 
On some barbarian shore ! 
Ah, where, beyond Poseidon's bitter 
foam, 
Hear'st thou the voice of home ? 

"Where, when, as now, the night's 
mysterious hush 

Our ancient life renews, 
Or when the tops of Corydallus flush 

O'er the departing dews — 
And lovely Attica, in silver spread, 

Forgets that she is dead — 

' ' Bidest thou in exile ? Speak ! Our 
being cold, — 
Thou knowest ! — yet retains 
The thrill of choric strophes, flutes of 
gold, 
And all victorious strains. 
Dark is the world that knows not us 
divine ; 
But, ah ! what fate is thine ? " 

Lo! from afar, across unmeasured seas 
An answering sound is blown, 

As when some wind-god's ghost moves 
Thessaly's 
Tall pines to solemn tone ; 

Yet happy, as a sole Arcadian flute, 
When harvest-fields are mute. 

"I hear ye, sisters!" — thus the an- 
swer falls: 
"My marble sends reply 
To you, who guard the fair, immortal 
halls 
Beneath our ancient sky ; 
Yet give no sadder echo to your 
moan, — 
I am not here alone ! 

" Dark walls surround me ; that keen 
azure fire 
Of day and night is fled ; 



326 



LATEST LYRICS 



Yet worship clothes me, and the old 
desire 
That round your feet is dead : 
I see glad eyes, I feel fresh spirits 
burn, 
And beauteous faith return ! 

" What idle hand or scornful set me 
here 
I heed no longer now ; 
Men know my loveliness, and, half in 
fear, 
Touch mine insulted brow : 
In me the glory of the gods dis- 
crowned 
The race again has found. 

"Move proudly, sisters, bear your 
architrave 
Without me, whom ye miss ! 
Truth finds her second birthplace, not 
her grave, 
On our Acropolis 1 
And children here, while there but 
aliens roam, 
Shall build once more our home." 

1877. 



THE VILLAGE STORK 

The old Hercynian Forest sent 

His weather on the plain ; 
Wahlwinkel's orchards writhed and 
bent 
In whirls of wind and rain. 
Within her nest, upon the roof, 
For generations tempest-proof, 
Wahlwinkel's stork with her young 

ones lay, 
When the hand of the hurricane tore 
away 
The house and the home that held 
them. 

The storm passed by ; the happy trees 

Stood up, and kissed the sun ; 
And from the birds new melodies 

Came fluting one by one. 
The stork, upon the paths below, 
Went sadly pacing to and fro, 
With dripping plumes and head de- 
pressed, 
For she thought of the spoiled ances- 
tral nest, 
And the old, inherited honor. 



"Behold her now!" the throstle 
sang 
From out the linden tree ; 

"Who knows from what a line she 
sprang, 
Beyond the unknown sea ? " 

' ' If she could sing, perchance her 
tale 

Might move us," chirruped the night- 
ingale. 

' ' Sing ? She can only rattle and 
creak ! " 

Whistled the bullfinch, with silver 
beak, 
Within the wires of his prison. 

And all birds there, or loud or low, 
Were one in scoff and scorn ; 

But still the stork paced to and fro, 
As utterly forlorn. 

Then suddenly, in turn of eye, 

She saw a poet passing by, 

And the thought in his brain was an 
arrow of fire, 

That pierced her with passion, and 
pride, and ire, 
And gave her a voice to answer. 

She raised her head and shook her 
wings, 
And faced the piping crowd. 
" Best service," said she, "never sings, 

True honor is not loud. 
My kindred carol not, nor boast ; 
Yet we are loved and welcomed most, 
And our ancient race is dearest and 

first, 
And the hand that hurts us is held 
accursed 
In every home of Wahlwinkel ! 

" Beneath a sky forever fair, 

And with a summer sod, 
The land I come from smiles — and 
there 
My brother was a god ! 
My nest upon a temple stands 
And sees the shine of desert lands ; 
And the palm and the tamarisk cool 

my wings, 
When the blazing beam of the noon- 
day stings, 
And I drink from the holy river ! 

" There I am sacred, even as here ; 
Yet dare I not be lost, 



THE VILLAGE STORK 



3 2 7 



WheD meads are bright, hearts full of 

cheer, 
At blithesome Pentecost. 
Then from mine obelisk I depart, 
Guided by something in my heart, 
And sweep in a line over Libyan 

sands 
To the blossoming olives of Grecian 

lands, 
And rest on the Cretan Ida ! 

" Parnassus sees me as I sail ; 

I cross the Adrian brine ; 
The distant summits fade and fail, 

Dalmatian, Apennine ; 
The Alpine snows beneath me 

gleam, 
I see the yellow Danube stream ; 



But I hasten on till my spent wings fall 
"Where I bring a blessing to each and 

all, 
And babes to the wives of Wahl- 

winkel ! " 

She drooped her head and spake no 
more ; 

The birds on either hand 
Sang louder, lustier than before — 

They could not understand. 
Thus mused the stork, with snap of 

beak : 
' ' Better be silent, than so speak ! 
Highest being can never be taught : 
They have their voices, I my thought ; 

And they were never in Egypt ! " 

August, 1878. 






ODES 



ODES 

1869-1878 

GETTYSBURG ODE 

DEDICATION OF THE NATIONAL MONUMENT, JULY 1, 



After the eyes that looked, the lips that spake 
Here, from the shadows of impending death, 

Those words of solemn breath, 

What voice may fitly break 
The silence, doubly hallowed, left by him ? 
We can but bow the head, with eyes grown dim, 

And, as a Nation's litany, repeat 
The phrase his martyrdom hath made complete, 
Noble as then, but now more sadly-sweet : 
' Let us, the Living, rather dedicate 
Ourselves to the unfinished work, which they 
Thus far advanced so nobly on its way, 

And save the perilled State ! 
Let us, upon this field where they, the brave, 
Their last full measure of devotion gave, 
Highly resolve they have not died in vain ! — 
That, under God, the Nation's later birth 

Of Freedom, and the people's gain 
Of their own Sovereignty, shall never wane 
And perish from the circle of the earth ! " 
From such a perfect text, shall Song aspire 

To light her faded fire, 
And into wandering music turn 
Its virtue, simple, sorrowful, and stern ? 
'His voice all elegies anticipated ; 

For, whatsoe'er the strain, 

We hear that one refrain : 
1 We consecrate ourselves to them, the Consecrated ! 

11 

After the thunder-storm our heaven is blue : 
Far-off, along the borders of the sky, 
In silver folds the clouds of battle lie, 

With soft, consoling sunlight shining through ; 

And round the sweeping circle of your hills 
The crashing cannon-thrills 

Have faded from the memory of the air ; 



332 ODES 

And Summer pours from unexhausted fountains 
Her bliss on yonder mountains : 

The camps are terjantless, the breastworks bare : 

Earth keeps no stain where hero-blood was poured : 
The hornets, humming on their wings of lead, 
Have ceased to sting, their angry swarms are dead, 

And, harmless in its scabbard, rusts the sword ! 

in 
O, not till now, — O, now we dare, at last, 

To give our heroes fitting consecration ! 
Not till the soreness of the strife is past, 

And Peace hath comforted the weary Nation ! 
So long her sad, indignant spirit held 
One keen regret, one throb of pain, unquelled; 
So long the land about her feet was waste, 

The ashes of the burning lay upon her, 
We stood beside their graves with brows abased, ; 

Waiting the purer mood to do them honor ! 
They, through the flames of this dread holocaust, 
The patriot's wrath, the soldier's ardor, lost: 
They sit above us and above our passion, 

Disparaged even by our human tears, — 
Beholding truth our race, perchance, may fashion 

In the slow process of the creeping years. 
We saw the still reproof upon their faces ; 
We heard them whisper from the shining spaces: 
" To-day ye grieve : come not to us with sorrow ! 
Wait for the glad, the reconciled To-morrow ! 
Your grief but clouds the ether where we dwell ; 

Your anger keeps your souls and ours apart : 
But come with peace and pardon, all is well ! 

And come with love, we touch you, heart to heart ! 



Immortal Brothers, we have heard ! 
Our lips declare the reconciling word : 
For Battle taught, that set us face to face, 

The stubborn temper of the race, 
And both, from fields no longer alien, come, 

To grander action equally invited, — 
Marshalled by Learning's trump, by Labor's drum, 

In strife that purifies and makes united ! 
We force to build, the powers that would destroy ; 
The muscles, hardened by the sabre's grasp, 

Now give our hands a firmer clasp : 
We bring not grief to you, but solemn joy! 

And, feeling you so near, 
Look forward with your eyes, divinely clear, 
To some sublimely-perfect, sacred year, 
When sons of fathers whom ye overcame 
Forget in mutual pride the partial blame, 
And join with us, to set the final crown 

Upon your dear renown, — 
The People's Union in heart and name ! 



GETTYSBURG ODE 333 

v 

And yet, ye Dead ! — and yet 
Our clouded natures cling to one regret : 
We are not all resigned 
To yield, with even mind, 
Our scarcely-risen stars, that here untimely set. 
We needs must think of History that waits 

For lines that live but in their proud beginning, — 
Arrested promises and cheated fates, — 

Youth's boundless venture and its single winning ! 
We see the ghosts of deeds they might have done, 

The phantom homes that beaconed their endeavor ; 
The seeds of countless lives, in them begun, 
That might have multiplied for us forever! 
We grudge the better strain of men 
That proved itself, and was extinguished then — 
The field, with strength and hope so thickly sown, 
Where from no other harvest shall be mown : 
For all the land, within its clasping seas, 

Is poorer now in bravery and beauty, 
Such wealth of manly loves and energies 
Was given to teach us all the freeman's sacred duty ! 

VI 

Again 't is they, the Dead, 
By whom our hearts are comforted. 
Deep as the land -blown murmurs of the waves 
The answer cometh from a thousand graves: 

' * Not so ! we are not orphaned of our fate ! 
Though life were warmest, and though love were sweetest, 
We still have portion in their best estate : 

Our fortune is the fairest and completest ! 
Our homes are everywhere : our loves are set 

In hearts of man and woman, sweet and vernal : 
Courage and Truth, the children we beget, 

Unmixed of baser earth, shall be eternal. 
A finer spirit in the blood shall give 
The token of the lines wherein we live, — 
Unselfish force, unconscious nobleness 

That in the shocks of fortune stands unshaken, — 
The hopes that in their very being bless, 

The aspirations that to deeds awaken ! 
If aught of finer virtue ye allow 

To us, that faith alone its like shall win you ; 
So, trust like ours shall ever lift the brow ; 

And strength like ours shall ever steel the sinew ! 
We are the blossoms which the storm has cast 

From the Spring promise of our Freedom's tree, 
Pruning its overgrowths, that so, at last, 

Its later fruit more bountiful shall be ! — 
Content, if, when the balm of Time assuages 
The branch's hurt, some fragrance of our lives 
In all the land survives, 
And makes their memory sweet through still expanding ages ! " 



334 ODES 

VII 

Thus grandly, they we mourn, themselves console us; 

And, as their spirits conquer and control us, 

We hear, from some high realm that lies beyond, 

The hero-voices of the Past respond. 

From every State that reached a broader right 

Through fiery gates of battle ; from the shock 

Of old invasions on the People's rock ; 

From tribes that stood, in Kings' and Priests' despite ; 

From graves, forgotten in the Syrian sand, 

Or nameless barrows of the Northern strand, 

Or gorges of the Alps and Pyrenees, 

Or the dark bowels of devouring seas, — 

Wherever Man for Man's sake died, — wherever 

Death stayed the march of upward-climbing feet, 

Leaving their Present incomplete, 
But through far Futures crowning their endeavor, — 
Their ghostly voices to our ears are sent, 
As when the high note of a trumpet wrings 

^Eolian answers from the strings 
Of many a mute, unfingered instrument ! 
Plataean cymbals thrill for us to-day ; 
The horns of Sempach in our echoes play, 
And nearer yet, and sharper, and more stern, 
The slogan rings that startled Bannockburn ; 
Till from the field, made green with kindred deed, 

The shields are clashed in exultation 
Above the dauntless Nation, 
That for a Continent has fought its Runnymede ! 

VEII 

Aye, for a Continent ! The heart that beats 

With such rich blood of sacrifice 
Shall, from the Tropics, drowsed with languid heats, 

To the blue ramparts of the Northern ice, 
Make felt its pulses, all this young world over ! — 

Shall thrill, and shake, and sway 
Each land that bourgeons in the Western day, 
Whatever flag may float, whatever shield may cover ! 
With fuller manhood every wind is rife, 

In every soil are sown the seeds of valor, 
Since out of death came forth such boundless life, 

Such ruddy beauty out of anguished pallor ! 

And that first deed, along the Southern wave, 

Spoiled not the sister-land, but lent an arm to save ! 



Now, in her seat secure, 
Where distant menaces no more can reach her, 

Our land, in undivided freedom pure, 
Becomes the unwilling world's unconscious teacher ; 
And, day by day, beneath serener skies, 
The unshaken pillars of her palace rise, — 
The Doric shafts, that lightly upward press, 
And hide in grace their giant massiveness. 



SHAKESPEARE'S STATUE 335 

What though the sword has hewn each corner-stone, 

And precious blood cements the deep foundation ! 
Never by other force have empires grown ; 

From other basis never rose a nation ! 
For strength is born of struggle, faith of doubt, 

Of discord law, and freedom of oppression : 
We hail from Pisgah, with exulting shout, 
The Promised Land below us, bright with sun, 

And deem its pastures won, 
Ere toil and blood have earned us their possession! 
Each aspiration of our human earth 
Becomes an act through keenest pangs of birth ; 
Each force, to bless, must cease to be a dream, 
And conquer life through agony supreme ; 
Each inborn right must outwardly be tested 

By stern material weapons, ere it stand 
• In the enduring fabric of the land, 
Secured for these who yielded it, and those who wrested ! 



This they have done for us who slumber here, — 

Awake, alive, though now so dumbly sleeping ; 
Spreading the board, but tasting not its cheer, 

Sowing, but never reaping ; — 
Building, but never sitting in the shade 
Of the strong mansion they have made ; — 
Speaking their word of life with mighty tongue, 
But hearing not the echo, million-voiced, 

Of brothers who rejoiced, 
From all our river vales and mountains flung ! 
So take them, Heroes of the songful Past ! 
Open your ranks, let every shining troop 

Its phantom banners droop, 
To hail Earth's noblest martyrs, and her last ! 
Take them, O Fatherland ! 
Who, dying, conquered in thy name; 
And, with a grateful hand, 
Inscribe their deed who took away thy blame, — 
Give, for their grandest all, thine insufficient fame ! 
Take them, O God ! our Brave, 
The glad fulfillers of Thy dread decree ; 
. Who grasped the sword for Peace, and smote to save, 
And, dying here for Freedom, also died for Thee i 



SHAKESPEARE'S STATUE 

CENTRAL PARK, NEW YORK, MAY 23, 1872 



In this free Pantheon of the air and sun, 
Where stubborn granite grudgingly gives place 
To petted turf, the garden's daintier race 
Of flowers, and Art hath slowly won 



336 ODES 

A smile from grim, primeval barrenness, 

What alien Form doth stand ? 
Where scarcely yet the heroes of the land, 
As in their future's haven, from the stress 
Of all conflicting tides, find quiet deep 

Of bronze or marble sleep, 
What stranger comes, to join the scanty band ? 
Who pauses here, as one that muses 
While centuries of men go by, 
And unto all our questioning refuses 
His clear, infallible reply ? 
Who hath his will of us, beneath our new- world sky 



Here, in his right, he stands! 
No breadth of earth-dividing seas can bar 
The breeze of morning, or the morning star, 

From visiting our lands : 
His wit, the breeze, his wisdom, as the star, 
Shone where our earliest life was set, and blew 

To freshen hope and plan 

In brains American, — 
To urge, resist, encourage, and subdue ! 
He came, a household ghost we could not ban : 
He sat, on winter nights, by cabin fires ; 
His summer fairies linked their hands 

Along our yellow sands ; 
He preached within the shadow of our spires ; 
And when the certain Fate drew nigh, to cleave 
The birth-cord, and a separate being leave, 
He, in our ranks of patient-hearted men, 
Wrought with the boundless forces of his fame, 

Victorious, and became 
The Master of our thought, the land's first Citizen ! 

in 
If, here, his image seem 
Of softer scenes and grayer skies to dream, 
Thatched cot and rustic tavern, ivied hall, 

The cuckoo's April call 
And cowslip-meads beside the Avon stream, 
He shall not fail that other home to find 

We could not leave behind ! 
The forms of Passion, which his fancy drew, 

In us their ancient likenesses beget : 
So, from our lives forever born anew, 

He stands amid his own creations yet ! 
Here comes lean Cassius, of conventions tired ; 

Here, in his coach, luxurious Antony 
Beside his Egypt, still of men admired ; 

And Brutus plans some purer liberty ! 
A thousand Shylocks, Jew and Christian, pass ; 

A hundred Hamlets, by their times betrayed ; 
And sweet Anne Page comes tripping o'er trie grass, 

And antlered Falstaff pants beneath the shade. 



SHAKESPEARE'S STATUE 337 

Here toss upon the wanton summer wind 

The locks of Rosalind ; 
Here some gay glove the damned spot conceals 

Which Lady Macbeth feels : 
His ease here smiling smooth Iago takes, 

And outcast Lear gives passage to his woe, 
And here some foiled Reformer sadly breaks 
His wand of Prospero ! 
In liveried splendor, side by side, 
Nick Bottom and Titania ride ; 
And Portia, flushed with cheers of men, 
Disdains dear, faithful Imogen ; 
And Puck, beside the form of Morse, 
Stops on his forty -minute course ; 
And Ariel from his swinging bough 
A blossom casts on Bryant's brow, 
Until, as summoned from his brooding brain, 
He sees his children all again, 
In us, as on our lips, each fresh, immortal strain ! 

IV 

Be welcome, Master ! In our active air 

Keep the calm strength we need to learn of thee ! 

A steadfast anchor be 
'Mid passions that exhaust, and times that wear ! 
Thy kindred race, that scarcely knows 

What power is in Repose, 
What permanence in Patience, what renown 
In silent faith and plodding toil of Art 

That shyly works apart, 
All these in thee unconsciously doth crown ! 

v 

The Many grow, through honor to the One ; 
And what of loftier life we do not live, 

This Form shall help to give, 
In our free Pantheon of the air and sun ! 
Here, where the noise of Trade is loudest, 

It builds a shrine august, 
To show, while pomp of wealth is proudest, 
How brief is gilded dust : 
How Art succeeds, though long, 
And o'er the tumult of the generations, 
The strong, enduring spirit of the nations, 

How speaks the voice of Song ! 
Our City, at her gateways of the sea, 

Twines bay around the mural crown upon her, 
And wins new grace and dearer dignity, 
Giving our race's Poet honor ! 
If such as he 
Again may ever be, 
And our humanity another crown 
Find in some equal, late renown, 
The reverence of what he was shall call it down ! 



sO 



338 ODES 

GOETHE 

NEW YORK, AUGUST 28, 1875 

I 

Whose voice shall so invade the spheres 
That, ere it die, the Master hears ? 
Whose arm is now so strong 
To fling the votive garland of a song, 
That some fresh odor of a world he knew 
With large enjoyment, and may yet 
Not utterly forget, 
Shall reach his place, and whisper whence it grew 

Dare we invoke him, that he pause 
On trails divine of unimagined laws, 

And bend the luminous eyes 
Experience could not dim, nor Fate surprise, 
On these late honors, where we fondly seem, 
Him thus exalting, like him to aspire, 
And reach, in our desire, 
The triumph of his toil, the beauty of his dream ! 



God moulds no second poet from the clay 
Time once hath cut in marble : when, at last, 

The veil is plucked away, 
We see no face familiar to the Past. 

New mixtures of the elements, 
And fresh espousals of the soul and sense, 

At first disguise 
The unconjectured Genius to our eyes, 
Till self -nursed faith and self -encouraged power 

Win the despotic hour 
That bids our doubting race accept and recognize ! 



Ah, who shall say what cloud of disregard, 
Cast by the savage ancient fame 

Of some forgotten name, 

Mantled the Chian bard ? 
He walked beside the strong, prophetic sea, 
Indifferent as itself, and nobly free ; 
While roll of waves and rhythmic sound of oars 

Along Ionian shores, 
To Troy's high story chimed in undertone, 
And gave his song the accent of their own ! 
What classic ghost severe was summoned up 
To threaten Dante, when the bitter bread 

Of exile on his board was spread, 
The bitter wine of bounty filled his cup ? 
We need not ask : the unpropitious years, 

The hate of Guelf , the lordly sneers 
Of Delia Scala's court, the Roman ban, 

Were but as eddying dust 

To his firm-centred trust ; 
For through that air without a star 



GOETHE 339 

Burned one unwavering beacon from afar, 
That kept hiin his and ours, the stern, immortal man! 
What courtier, stuffed with smooth, accepted lore 

Of Song's patrician line, 
But shrugged his velvet shoulders all the more, 
And heard, with bland, indulgent face, 
As who bestows a grace, 
The homely phrase that Shakespeare made divine ? 

So, now, the dainty souls that crave 
Light stepping-stones across a shallow wave, 
Shrink from the deeps of Goethe's soundless song! 

So, now, the weak, imperfect fire 
That knows but half of passion and desire 
Betrays itself, to do the Master wrong ; — 
Turns, dazzled by his white, uncolored glow, 
And deems his sevenfold heat the wintry flash of snow ! 



Fate, like a grudging child, 

Herself once reconciled 
To power by loss, by suffering to fame ; 

Weighing the Poet's name 
With blindness, exile, want, and aims denied ; 
Or let faint spirits perish in their pride ; 
Or gave her justice when its need had died; 
"But as if weary she 
Of struggle crowned by victory, 
Him with the largesse of her gifts she tried ! 

Proud beauty to the boy she gave : 
A lip that bubbled song, yet lured the bee ; 
An eye of light, a forehead pure and free ; 
Strength as of streams, and grace as of the wave ! 

Round him the morning air 
Of life she charmed, and made his pathway fair; 

Lent Love her lightest chain, 
That laid no bondage on the haughty brain, 
And cheapened honors with a new disdain : 

Kept, through the shocks of Time ; 
For him the haven of a peace sublime, 

And let his sight forerun 
The sown achievement, to the harvest won! 



But Fortune's darling stood unspoiled : 

Caressing Love and Pleasure, 
He let not go the imperishable treasure: 
He thought, and sported ; carolled free, and toiled : 
He stretched wide arms to clasp the joy of Earth, 

But delved in every field 
Of knowledge, conquering all clear worth 
Of action, that ennobles through the sense 

Of wholly used intelligence : 
From loftiest pinnacles, that shone revealed 
In pure poetic ether, he could bend 

To win the little store 

Of humblest Labor's lore, 



34Q ODES 

And give each face of Life the greeting of a friend ! 
He taught, and governed, — knew the thankless days 

Of service and dispraise ; 
He followed Science on her stony ways ; 
He turned from princely state to heed 

The single nature's need, 
And, through the chill of hostile years, 
Never unlearned the noble shame of tears! 
Faced by fulfilled Ideals, he aspired 
To win the perished secret of their grace, — 
To dower the earnest children of a race 
Toil never tamed, nor acquisition tired, 
With Freedom born of Beauty ! — and for them 
His Titan soul combined 
The passions of the mind, 
Which blood and time so long had held apart, 
Till the white blossom of the Grecian Art 
The world saw shine once more, upon a Gothic stem ! 



His measure would we mete ? 
It is a sea that murmurs at our feet. 

Wait, first, upon the strand : 
A far shore glimmers — " knowest thou the land ? " 
Whence these gay flowers that breathe beside the water ? 

Ask thou the Erl-King's daughter! 
It is no cloud that darkens thus the shore : 
Faust on his mantle passes o'er. 
The water roars, the water heaves, 

The trembling waves divide: 
A shape of beauty, rising, cleaves 

The green translucent tide. 
The shape is a charm, the voice is a spell ; 
We yield, and dip in the gentle swell. 
Then billowy arms our limbs entwine, 
And, chill as the hidden heat of wine, 
We meet the shock of the sturdy brine ; 
And we feel, beneath the surface-flow, 
The tug of the powerful undertow, 

That ceaselessly gathers and sweeps 
To broader surges and darker deeps ; 
Till, faint and breathless, we can but float 
Idly, and listen to many a note 
From horns of the Tritons flung afar ; 

And see, on the watery rim, 

The circling Dorides swim, 
And Cypris, poised on her dove-drawn car! 

Torn from the deepest caves, 

Sea-blooms brighten the waves : 
The breaker throws pearls on the sand, 
And inlets pierce to the heart of the land, 

Winding by dorf and mill, 
Where the shores are green and the waters still, 

And the force, but now so wild, 
Mirrors the maiden and sports with the child ! 
Spent from the sea, we gain its brink, 

With soul aroused and limbs aflame : 



GOETHE 341 

Half are we drawn, and half we sink 
But rise no more the same. 

■ 

VII 

O meadows threaded by the silver Main ! 

O Saxon hills of pine, 
Witch-haunted Hartz, and thou, 

Deep vale of Ilmenau! 
Ye knew your poet ; and not only ye : 

The purple Tyrrhene Sea 
Not murmurs Virgil less, but him the more ; 
The- Lar of haughty Rome 
Gave the high guest a home : 
He dwells with Tasso on Sorrento's shore ! 
The dewy wild-rose of his German lays, 
Beside the classic cyclamen, 

In many a Sabine glen, 
Sweetens^the calm Italian days. 
But pass the hoary ridge of Lebanon, 

To where the sacred sun 
Beams on Sehiraz ; and lo! before the gates, 

Goethe, the heir of Hafiz, waits. 
Know ye the turbaned brow, the Persian guise, 
The bearded lips, the deep yet laughing eyes ? 
A cadence strange and strong 
Fills each voluptuous song, 
And kindles energy from old repose ; 
Even as first, amid the throes 
Of the unquiet West, 
He breathed repose to heal the old unrest ! 

vrn 
Dear is the Minstrel, yet the Man is more ; 
But should I turn the pages of his brain, 
The lighter muscle of my verse would strain 

And break beneath his lore. 
How charge with music powers so vast and free, 

Save one be great as he ? 
Behold him, as ye jostle with the throng 
Through narrow ways, that do your beings wrong, 
Self-chosen lanes, wherein ye press 

In louder Storm and Stress, 
Passing the lesser bounty by 
Because the greater seems too high, 
And that sublimest joy forego, 

To seek, aspire, and know ! 
Behold in him. since our strong line began, 

The first f ull-statured man ! 
Dear is the Minstrel, even to hearts of prose ; 
But he who sets all aspiration free 

Is dearer to humanity. 
Still through our age the shadowy Leader goes ; 
Still whispers cheer, or waves his warning sign ; 

The man who, most of men, 
Heeded the parable from lips divine, 

And made one talent ten ! 



342 ODES 

THE NATIONAL ODE 

INDEPENDENCE SQUARE, PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876 
L— 1. 

Sun of the stately Day 
Let Asia into the shadow drift, 
Let Europe bask in thy ripened ray, 
And over the severing ocean lift 
A brow of broader splendor! 
Give light to the eager eyes 
Of the Land that waits to behold thee rise ; 
The gladness of morning lend her, 
With the triumph of noon attend her, 
And the peace of the vesper skies ! 
For, lo ! she cometh now 
With hope on the lip and pride on the brow, 
Stronger, and dearer, and fairer, 
To smile on the love we bear her, — 
To live, as we dreamed her and sought her, 

Liberty's latest daughter! 
In the clefts of the rocks, in the secret places, 

We found her traces ; 
On the hills, in the crash of woods that fall, 
We heard her call ; 
When the lines of battle broke, 
We saw her face in the fiery smoke ; 
Through toil, and anguish, and desolation, 

We followed, and found her 
With the grace of a virgin Nation 
As a sacred zone around her ! 

Who shall rejoice 
With a righteous voice, 
Far-heard through the ages, if not she ? 

For the menace is dumb that defied her, 
The doubt is dead that denied her, 
And she stands acknowledged, and strong, and free 1 

II.— 1. 

Ah, hark ! the solemn undertone, 
On every wind of human story blown. 

A large, divinely-moulded Fate 
Questions the right and purpose of a State, 
And in its plan sublime 

Our eras are the dust of Time. 

The far-off Yesterday of power 
Creeps back with stealthy feet, 

Invades the lordship of the hour, 
And at our banquet takes the unbidden seat. 
From all unchronicled and silent ages 
Before the Future first begot the Past, 

Till History dared, at last, 
To write eternal words on granite pages ; 
From Egypt's tawny drift, and Assur's mound, 

And where, uplifted white and far, 

Earth highest yearns to meet a star, 



THE NATIONAL ODE 343 

And Man his manhood by the Ganges found, — 
Imperial heads, of old millennial sway, 

And still by some pale splendor crowned, 
Chill as a corpse-light in our full-orbed day, 

In ghostly grandeur rise 
And say, through stony lips and vacant eyes : 
Thou that assertest freedom, power, and fame, 

Declare to us thy claim ! " 



I.— 2. 

On the shores of a Continent cast, 
She won the inviolate soil 
By loss of heirdom of all the Past, 
Arid faith in the royal right of Toil ! 
She planted homes on the savage sod : 
Into the wilderness lone 
She walked with fearless feet, 
In her hand the divining-rod, 
Till the veins of the mountains beat 
With fire of metal and force of stone ! 
She set the speed of the river-head 

To turn the mills of her bread ; 
She drove her ploughshare deep 
Through the prairie's thousand-centuried sleep, 
To the South, and West, and North, 
She called Pathfinder forth, 
Her faithful and sole companion 
Where the flushed Sierra, snow-starred, 

Her way to the sunset barred, 
And the nameless rivers in thunder and foam 
Channelled the terrible canyon ! 
Nor paused, till her uttermost home 
Was built, in the smile of a softer sky 

And the glory of beauty still to be, 
Where the haunted waves of Asia die 
On the strand of the world-wide sea ! 



II. — 2. 

The race, in conquering, 
Some fierce, Titanic joy of conquest knows; 

Whether in veins of serf or king, 
Our ancient blood beats restless in repose. 

Challenge of Nature unsubdued 
Awaits not Man's defiant answer long; 

For hardship, even as wrong, 
Provokes the level-eyed heroic mood. 
This for herself she did ; but that which lies, 

As over earth the skies, 
Blending all forms in one benignant glow, — 

Crowned conscience, tender care, 
Justice that answers every bondman's prayer, 
Freedom where Faith may lead and Thought may dare, 

The power of minds that know, 

Passion of hearts that feel, 



344 ODES 



Purchased by blood and woe, 
Guarded by fire and steel, — 

Hath she secured ? What blazon on her shield, 
In the clear Century's light 
Shines to the world revealed, 

Declaring nobler triumph, born of Right ? 

I. —3. 

Foreseen in the vision of sages, 

Foretold when martyrs bled, 
She was born of the longing of ages, 
By the truth of the noble dead 
And the faith of the living fed! 
No blood in her lightest veins 
Frets at remembered chains, 
Nor shame of bondage has bowed her head. 
In her form and features still 
The unblenching Puritan will, 
Cavalier honor, Huguenot grace, 
The Quaker truth and sweetness, 
And the strength of the danger-girdled race 
Of Holland, blend in a proud completeness. 
From the homes of all, where her being began, 
She took what she gave to Man ; 
Justice, that knew no station, 

Belief, as soul decreed, 
Free air for aspiration, 
Free force for independent deed ! 
She takes, but to give again, 
As the sea returns the rivers in rain ; 
And gathers the chosen of her seed 
From the hunted of every crown and creed. 
Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine ; 
Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine ; 
Her France pursues some dream divine ; 
Her Norway keeps his mountain pine ; 
Her Italy waits by the western brine ; 
And, broad-based under all, 
Is planted England's oaken-hearted mood, 
As rich in fortitude 
As e'er went worldward from the island-wall ! 

Fused in her candid light, 
To one strong race all races here unite: 
Tongues melt in hers, hereditary f oemen 
Forget their sword and slogan, kith and clan : 

'T was glory, once, to be a Roman : 
She makes it glory, now, to be a man! 



H. — 3. 

Bow down ! 
Doff thine seonian crown ! 

One hour forget 
The glory, and recall the debt: 



THE NATIONAL ODE 345 

Make expiation, 

Of humbler mood, 
For the pride 'of thine exultation 
O'er peril conquered and strife subdued ! 
But half the right is wrested 

When victory yields her prize. 
And half the marrow tested 

When old endurance dies. 
In the sight of them that love thee, 
Bow to the Greater above thee ! 

He faileth not to smite 
The idle ownership of Right, 
Nor spares to sinews fresh from trial, 
And virtue schooled in long denial, 

The tests that wait for thee 
In larger perils of prosperity. 

Here, at the Century's awful shrine, 
Bow to thy Father's God, and thine ! 



I.— 4. 

Behold! she bendeth now, 
Humbling the chaplet of her hundred years: 
There is a solemn sweetness on her brow, 
And in her eyes are sacred tears. 
Can she forget, 
In present joy, the burden of her debt, 
When for a captive race 
She grandly staked, and won, 
The total promise of her power begun, 

And bared her bosom's grace 
To the sharp wound that inly tortures yet ? 

Can she forget 
The million graves her young devotion set, 

The hands that clasp above, 

From either side, in sad, returning love? 

Can she forget, 

Here, where the Ruler of to-day, 

The Citizen of to-morrow, 

And equal thousands to rejoice and pray 

Beside these holy walls are met, 
Her birth-cry, mixed of keenest bliss and sorrow ? 
Where, on July's immortal morn 
Held forth, the People saw her head 
And shouted to the world : " The King is dead, 

But, lo ! the Heir is born ! " 
When fire of Youth, and sober trust of Age, 
In Farmer, Soldier, Priest, and Sage, 
Arose and cast upon her 
Baptismal garments, — never robes so fair 

Clad prince in Old -World air, — 
Their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor ! 



346 ODES 



II.— 4. 

Arise ! Recrown thy head, 
Radiant with blessing of the Dead ! 

Bear from this hallowed place 
The prayer that purifies thy lips, 
The light of courage that defies eclipse, 
The rose of Man's new morning on thy face ! 

Let no iconoclast 
Invade thy rising Pantheon of the Past, 
To make a blank where Adams stood, 
To touch the Father's sheathed and sacred blade, 
Spoil crowns on Jefferson and Franklin laid, 
Or wash from Freedom's feet the stain of Lincoln's blood! 
Hearken, as from that haunted Hall 
Their voices call : 
' ' We lived and died for thee ; 
We greatly dared that thou might'st be : 
So, from thy children still 
We claim denials which at last fulfil, 
And freedom yielded to preserve thee free ! 
Beside clear-hearted Right 
That smiles at Power's uplifted rod, 
Plant Duties that requite, 
And Order that sustains, upon thy sod, 

And stand in stainless might 
Above all self, and only less than God ! 

III. — 1. 
Here may thy solemn challenge end, 
All-proving Past, and each discordance die 

Of doubtful augury, 
Or in one choral with the Present blend, 
And that half -heard, sweet harmony 
Of something nobler that our sons may see ! 

Though poignant memories burn 

Of days that were, and may again return, 

When thy fleet foot, O Huntress of the Woods, 

The slippery brinks of danger knew, 

And dim the eyesight grew 

That was so sure in thine old solitudes, — 

Yet stays some richer sense 
Won from the mixture of thine elements, 

To guide the vagrant scheme, 
And winnow truth from each conflicting dream ! 

Yet in thy blood shall live 

Some force unspent, some essence primitive, 

To seize the highest use of things ; 

For Fate, to mould thee to her plan, 

Denied thee food of kings, 

Withheld the udder and the orchard-fruits, 

Fed thee with savage roots, 

And forced thy harsher milk from barren breasts of man ! 



THE NATIONAL ODE 347 



IIL— 2. 

O sacred Woman-Form, 
Of the first People's need and passion wrought, — 

No thin, pale ghost of Thought, 
But fair as Morning and as heart' s-blood warm, — 
Wearing thy priestly tiar on Judah's hills ; 
Clear-eyed beneath Athene's helm of gold; 

Or from Rome's central seat 
Hearing the pulses of the Continents beat 
In thunder where her legions rolled ; 
Compact of high heroic hearts and wills, 

Whose being circles all 
The selfless aims of men, and all fulfils ; 
Thyself not free, so long as one is thrall : 
Goddess, that as a Nation lives, 
And as a Nation dies, 
That for her children as a man defies, 
And to her children as a mother gives, — 

Take our fresh fealty now ! 
No more a Chieftainess, with wampum-zone 
And feather-cinctured brow, — 
No more a new Britannia, grown 
To spread an equal banner to the breeze, 
And lift thy trident o'er the double seas ; 
But with unborrowed crest, 
In thine own native beauty dressed, — 
The front of pure command, the unflinching eye, thine own! 

III. — 3. 

Look up, look forth, and on ! 

There 's light in the dawning sky: 
The clouds are parting, the night is gone : 

Prepare for the work of the day! 

Fallow thy pastures lie, 

And far thy shepherds stray, 
And the fields of thy vast domain 

Are waiting for purer seed 

Of knowledge, desire, and deed, 
For keener sunshine and mellower rain ! 

But keep thy garments pure : 
Pluck them back, with the old disdain, 

From touch of the hands that stain ! 

So shall thy strength endure. 
Transmute into good the gold of Gain, 
Compel to beauty thy ruder powers, 

Till the bounty of coming hours 

Shall plant, on thy fields apart, 
With the oak of Toil, the rose of Art ! 

Be watchful, and keep us so : 

Be strong, and fear no foe : 

Be just, and the world shall know ! 
With the same love love us, as we give ; 

And the day shall never come, 

That finds us weak or dumb 



348 ODES 



To join and smite and cry _ 
In the great task, for thee to die, 
And the greater task, for thee to live ! 



THE OBSEQUIES IN ROME 

JANUARY 17, 1878 



Victor Emanuel ! — of prophetic name, 

Who, crowned in sore defeat, 
Caught out of blood, disaster, and retreat, 
With wounded hands, a soldier's simple fame, — 

Content, had that been all, 
And most content, victoriously to fall : — 
Life saved thee for a people's holiest aim, 

And leaves thee Victor, in thy pall! 
" God with us" may that people say, 
Who walk behind thy conquering dust, to-day: 

Yea, all thine Italy 
Made one, at last, and proudly free, 
Blesses thy sire's baptismal prophecy ! 

ii 

Since, over- coarse to be the Empire's lord, 

Herulian Odoaker fell 
Among spilled goblets, by the Gothic sword, 
In old Ravenna's palace citadel ; 

And, after him, Theodoric strove 
To own the land he could not choose but love ; — 
And both, from no deficiency of power, 

But failing heart and brain 
That might revivify the beauty slain, 
Builded barbaric thrones for one brief hour ; — 

Since, in a glorious vision cast 
By some narcotic opiate of the Past, 

Rienzi sought to be 
Brutus in deed, Caesar in victory, — 
The Italy, that once was Rome, 
Dismembered, sighed for her deliverance, 

Saw her Republics die, 
Leaned vainly on the broken reed of France, 

Till, when despair seemed nigh, 
She knew herself, and, starting from her trance, 
Summoned the Victor, who hath led her home ! 



He knew his people, and his soul was strong 

To wait till they knew him: 
The hand that holds a sceptre dare not shake 
From the quick blood that burns at every wrong. 

With Europe watchful, cold and grim 
Behind him, and the triple-hooded snake 

Coiled in his path, he went 
Through changing gusts of doubt and discontent, 
Till all he could have dreamed of, came to him ! 



THE OBSEQUIES IN ROME 349 

But now his people know him ! — now, 
Since Death's pure coronet is on his brow, 

Italian eyes are dim ! 
Now to her ancient glories sovereign Home 

Adds one more glory : sorrow falls 
O'er all the circuit of the Aurelian walls, — 
Even from Montorio on Saint Peter's dome : 
And where on warm Pamfili-Dorian meads 

Fresh dew the daisy feeds; 
And breathes in every tall Borghese pine, 

And moans on Aventine ; 
And — could the voice of all desire awake 
That once was loud for Italy's dear sake, — 
A hymn would burst from each dumb burial-stone 

Beside the Cestian pyramid, 

Where Keats's, Shelley's dust is hid, 
In dithyrambic triumph o'er his own ! 



Who walk behind his bier ? 
Behold the solemn phantoms ! — who are they, 
The stern precursors that arise, to-day, 

Breathing of many a fiery year 
And clad in drapery of a darker time ? 

These are the dead who saw, 
Too soon, the world's diviner law, — 
Too early dreamed their people's dream sublime ! 
He follows them, who lived to make that dream 

A principle supreme, 
Dome-browed Mazzini, — he, who planted sure 

Its corner-stone, Cavour ! 
Then, first among the living, that gray chief 
Who wears, at last, his Roman laurel's leaf, 
To conquer which he rent and shattered down 

His rich Sicilian crown. 
Ah, bend thee, Garibaldi ! — be not loth 
To trust the son of him thou gav'st a land, 

Or kiss the stainless hand 
Of her whose name is pearl and daisy both ! 

Such love, to-day, thy people give 
To him who died, such trust to them who live. 



Cunning nor Force shall overthrow 
The State whose fabric has been builded so. 
Under the Pantheon's dome, 
The undying Victor still shall reign 
O'er one free land that dare not feel a chain, - 

Whose mighty heart is Rome ! 
Still, from the ramparts of the Rhaetian snow, 
Far down the realms of corn and wine, 
Back-boned by Apennine, 
To capes that breast the warm Calabrian Sea, 
A single race shall know 
One love, one right, one loyalty : — 
Still from his ashes Italy shall grow, 
Who made her Italy ! 



35° ODES 

EPICEDIUM 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 



Say, who shall mourn him first, 
Who sang in days for Song so evil-starred, 
Shielding from adverse winds the flame he nursed, 

Our Country's earliest Bard? 

For all he sang survives 
In stream, and tree, and bird, and mountain-crest, 
And consecration of uplifted lives 

To Duty's stern behest; 
Till, like an echo falling late and far 
As unto Earth the answer from a star, 
Along his thought's so nigh unnoted track 

Our people's heart o'ertakes 
His pure design, and hears him, and awakes 

To breathe its music back ! 
Approach, sad Forms, now fitly to employ 
The grave, sweet stops of all melodious sound, 

Yet undertoned with joy; 
For him ye lose, at last is truly found. 

ii 
Scarce darkened by the shadow of these hours, 
The Manitou of Flowers, 
Crowned with the Painted-cup, that shakes 
Its gleam of war-paint on his dusky cheek, 

Goes by, but cannot speak ; 
Yet tear or dew-drop 'neath his coronal breaks, 

And in his drooping hand 
The azure eyelids of the gentian die 

That loves the yellow autumn land • 
The wind-flower, golden-rod, 
With phlox and orchis, nod ; 
And every blossom frail and shy 
No careless loiterer sees, 
But poet, sun and breeze, 
And the bright countenance of our western sky. 
They know who loved them ; they, if all 

Forgot to dress his pall, 
Or strew his couch of long repose, 
Would from the prairies and the central snows 

The sighing west- wind call, 
Their withered petals, even as tears, to bear, 

And, like a JSTiobe of ais, 
Upon his sea-side grave to let them fall ! 



Next you, ye many Streams, 
That make a music through his cold green land ! 

Whether ye scour the granite slides 
In broken spray-light or in sheeted gleams, 

Or in dark basins stand, 
Your bard's fond spirit in your own abides. 



EPICEDIUM 

Not yours the wail of woe, 
Whose joy is in your wild and wanton flow, — 

Chill, beautiful Undines 
That flash white hands behind your thicket-screens, 
And charm the wild wood and the cloven flumes 

To hide you in their glooms ! 
But he hath kissed you, and his lips betray 
Your coyest secrets ; now, no more 
Your bickering, winking tides shall stray 

Through August's idle day, 
Or showered with leaves from brown November's floo 
Untamed, and rich in mystery 

As ye were wont to be ! 
From where the dells of Greylock feed 
Your thin, young life, to where the Sangamon 
Breaks with his winding green the Western mead, 

Delay to hasten on ! 

Ask not the clouds and hills 
To swell the veins of your obedient rills, 
And brim your banks with turbid overflow ; 

But calmly, soothly go, 
Soft as a sigh and limpid as a tear, 

So that ye seem to borrow 

The voice and the visage of sorrow, 
For he gave you glory and made you dear ! 



Strong Winds and mighty Mountains, sovereign Sea, 

What shall your dirges be ? 
The slow, great billow, far down the shore, 
Booms in its breaking : ' ' Dare — and despair ! " 
The fetterless winds, as they gather and roar, 
Are evermore crying : " Where, oh where V " 
The mountain summits, with ages hoar, 
Say: "Near and austere, but far and fair ! " 

Shall ye in your sorrow droop, 
Who are strong and sad, and who cannot stoop ? 
Two may sing to him where he lies, 
But the third is hidden behind the skies. 

Ye cannot take what he stole, 
And made his own in his inmost soul ! 

The pulse of the endless Wave 
Beauty and breadth to his strophes gave ; 

The Winds with their hands unseen 
Held him poised at a height serene ; 
And the world that wooed him, he smiled to o'ercome it 

Whose being the Mountains made so strong, — 
Whose forehead arose like a sunlighted summit 

Over eyes that were fountains of thought and song ! 



And last, ye Forms, with shrouded face 
Hiding the features of your woe, 
That on the fresh sod of his burial-place 

Your myrtle, oak, and laurel throw, — 
Who are ye ? — whence your silent sorrow ? 



35 



352 ODES 



Strange is your aspect, alien your attire : 

Shall we, who knew him, borrow 
Your unknown speech for Grief's august desire ? 

Lo ! one, with lifted brow 
Says: " Nay, he knew and loved me : I am Spain ! " 
Another: " I am Germany, 

Drawn sadly nearer now 
By songs of his and mine that make one strain, 
Though parted by the world-dividing sea! " 
And from the hills of Greece there blew 
A wind that shook the olives of Peru, 

Till all the world that knew, 
Or, knowing not, shall yet awake to know 
The sweet humanity that fused his song, — 

The haughty challenge unto Wrong, 
And for the trampled Truth his fearless blow, — 

Acknowledge his exalted mood 
Of faith achieved in song-born solitude, 

And give him high acclaim 
With those who followed Good, and found it Fame! 



Ah, no ! — why should we mourn 
The noble life, that wore its crown of years ? 
Why drop these tender, unavailing tears 
Upon a fate of no fulfilment shorn ? 

He was too proud to seek 
That which should come unasked ; and came, 
Kindling and brightening as a wind-blown flame 
When he had waited long, 
And life — but never art — was weak, 
But youthful will and sympathy were strong 
In white-browed eye and hoary -bearded cheek ; 
Until, when called at last 
That later life to celebrate, 
Wherein, dear Italy, for thine estate, 
The glorious Present joined the glorious Past, 

He fell, and ceased to be ! 
We could not yield him grandlier than thus, 
When, for thy hero speaking, he 
Spake equally for us ! — 
His last word, as his first, was Liberty ! 
His last word, as his first, for Truth 
Struck to the heart of age and youth : 
He sought her everywhere, 
In the loud city, forest, sea, and air : 
He bowed to wisdom other than his own, 
To wisdom and to law, 
Concealed or dimly shown 
In all he knew not, all he knew and saw, 
Trusting the Present, tolerant of the Past, 

Firm-faithed in what shall come 
When the vain noises of these days are dumb ; 
And his first word was noble as his last ! 

Berlin, September, 1878. 



INDEXES 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



A grass-blade is my warlike lance, 317. 

A land of Dreams and Sleep, — a poppied land ! 
72. 

A second deluge ! "Well, — no matter : here, 42. 

A silver javelin which the hills, 69. 

A thousand years ! Through storm and fire, 138. 

Above the palms, the peaks of pearly gray, 148. 

After the eyes that looked, the lips that spake, 
331. 

Again I sit within the mansion, 99. 

Along the east, where late the dark impended, 
123. 

An old and crippled veteran to the War Depart- 
ment came, 136. 

As when the haze of some wan moonlight makes, 
39. 

At last the dream that clad the field, 158. 

Because no other dream my childhood knew, 177. 
Born in the purple ! born in the purple ! 85. 
Brim the bowls with Shiraz wine ! 66. 
Brother Bards of every region, 78. 

Child with the butterfly, 319. 
Children are we, 12. 
Come hither, Child ! thou silent, shy, 4. 
Come, my beauty ! come, my desert darling ! 75. 
Come to me, Lalage ! 316. 

Complete the altar stands : my task is done, 181. 
Could I choose the age and fortunate season, 
307. 

Daughter of Egypt, veil thine eyes ! 62. 
Dead is the air, and still ! the leaves of the lo- 
cust and walnut, 253. 
Dear Lillian, all I wished is won ! 15. 
Down in the dell I wandered, 98. 
Do you sigh for the power you dream of, 309. 

Farewell awhile, my bonnie darling ! 147. 

Fill, for we drink to Labor ! 318. 

For days before, the wild-dove cooed for rain, 

121. 
From the bosom of ocean I seek thee, 13. 
From the Desert I come to thee, 69. 
From the doorway, Manuela, in the sunny April 

morn, 19. 
From you and home I sleep afar, 127. 

Give back the soul of youth once more ! 92. 
" Give us a song ! " the soldiers cried, 86. 
God, to whom we look up blindly, 113. 
Gusty and raw was the morning, 20. 

Hail to thee, monarch of African mountains, 72. 
Hassan Ben Khaled, singing in the streets, 55. 
Have I passed through Death's unconscious 

birth, 123. 
Have you seen the Garden of Irem ? 67. 
He knew the mask of principle to wear, 143. 
He was a boy when first we met, 124. 



Heart in my bosom beating, 318. 

Heavy, and hot, and gray, 112. 

Hereslacken rein ; here let the dusty mules, 24. 

Here was the gate. The broken paling, 154. 

Homely, forgotten flower, 319. 

How cool and wet the lowlands lie, 94. 

How the hot revel's fever dies, 94. 

I am born from the womb of the cloud, 311. 

I am no chieftain, fit to lead, 6. 

I had a vision in that solemn hour, 17. 

I lie in the summer meadows, 98. 

I plucked for thee the wilding rose, 12. 

I read that story of the Saxon knight, 125. 

I ride in a gloomy land, 314. 

I sat to-day beneath the pine, 320. 

I sit on the lonely headland, 109. 

I 've drunk Sicilia's crimson wine ! 9. 

I 've passed the grim and threatening warders, 19. 

I walk, as in a dream, 139. 

If heat of youth, 't is heat suppressed, 323. 

"If I could forget," she said, "forget, and be- 
gin again ! " 242. 

If I could touch with Petrarch's pen this strain, 
143. 

If love should come again, I ask my heart, 119. 

If that my hand, like yours, dear George, were 
skilled, 142. 

If thou hadst died at midnight, 115. 

In Allan's name, the Ever Merciful, 160. 

In clay the statue stood complete, 108. 

In Steyermark, — green Steyermark, 14. 

In this free Pantheon of the air and sun, 335. 

Io triumphe ! Lo, thy certain art, 86. 

It was our wedding-day, 126. 

It was the evening of the second day, 114. 

Italy, loved of the sun, 156. 

Last night the Tempter came to me, and said, 110. 

Learn to live, and live to learn, 321. 

Like one who leaves the trampled street, 119. 

Little one, come to my knee ! 141. 

Long ere the shores of green America, 28. 

Look forth, Beloved, from thy mansion high, 147. 

Love, I foUow, follow thee, 120. 

May-time and August, November, and over the 

winter to May-time, 259. 
Moan, ye wild winds ! around the pane, 5. 
My home was seated high and fair, 310. 
Mysterious Flood, — that through the silent 

sands, 75. 

Nay, fold your arms, beloved Friends, 138. 
Nay, nay ! the longings tender, 313. 
Near in the forest, 318. 
Next to thee, O fair gazelle, 78. 
Nightly the hoar-frost freezes, 322. 
No longer spread the sail ! 96. 
Not as in youth, with steps outspeeding morn, 
103. 



35 6 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Now fold thy rich experience round thee, 160. 
Now saddle El Canelo ! — the freshening wind 

of morn, 23. 
Now the days are brief and drear, 96. 
Now the frosty stars are gone, 46. 
Now the night is overpast, 126. 
Now, when the mocking-bird returned, from his 

Florida winter, 249. 

O Daughter of the Sun, 76. 

O fair young land, the youngest, fairest far, 91. 

Friend, were you but couched on Tmolus' side, 

51. 
O God of Peace ! now o'er the world, 315. 
O tongues of the Past, be still ! 111. 
Off, fetters of the falser life, 88. 
On curtained eyes, and bosoms warm with rest, 

263. 
Once let the Angel blow ! 324. 
Once more without you ! Sighing, Dear, once 

more, 141. 
One hour be silent, sounds of war ! 143. 
Over the eaves where the sunbeams fall, 320. 

Paler, and yet a thousand times more fair, 129. 

Returned to warm existence, — even as one, 155. 
Roseate darling, 149. 

Sad Autumn, drop thy weedy crown forlorn, 142. 
Say, who shall mourn him first, 350. 
Scarce from the void of shadows taken, 159. 
Search high and low, search up and down, 312. 
She came, long absent from my side, 124. 
She is a woman : therefore, I a man, 125. 
She, pacing down the vineyard walks, 90. 
Snow-bound for earth, but summer-souled for 

thee, 321. 
Something came with the falling dusk, 312. 
Sometimes an hour of Fate's serenest weather, 

248. 
Sometimes, in sleeping dreams of night, 97. 
Strike the tent ! the sun has risen ; not a vapor 

streaks the dawn, 27. 
Storm-wearied Argo slept upon the water, 34. 
Sun of the stately Day, 342. 

That late, in half-despair, I said, 135. 

The beech is bare, and bare the ash, 115. 

The black-eyed children of the Desert drove, 37. 

The clarion Wind, that blew so loud at morn, 7. 

The clouds are scudding across the moon, 11. 

The clouds that stoop from yonder sky, 311. 

The Coliseum lifts at night, 89. 

The corn was warm in the ground, the fences 

were mended and made, 239. 
The day had come, the day of many years, 105. 
The deep and lordly Danube, 13. 
The dusky sky fades into blue, 53. 
The evening shadows lengthen on the lawn, 104. 
The fateful hour, when Death stood by, 129. 
The fisherman wades in the surges, 111. 
The frosty fires of Northern starlight, 17. 
The glen was fair as some Arcadian dell, 150. 
The gods are gone, the temples overthrown, 157. 
The gorgeous blossoms of that magic tree, 77. 
The gray stems rise, the branches braid, 116. 
The lamps were thick ; the air was hot, 94. 
The message of the god I seek, 153. 
The old Hercynian Forest sent, 326. 
The " Ornament of Asia" and the " Crown, 77. 
The Poet came to the Land of the East, 38. 
The Prophet once, sitting in calm debate, 68. 
The rain is sobbing on the wold, 93. 



The rose of your cheek is precious, 316. 

The Scorpion's stars crawl down behind the 

sun, 6. 
The sea is a jovial comrade, 92. 
The splendor of the sinking moon, 79. 
The star o' the morn is whitest, 317. 
The sun, the moon, the mystic planets seven, 

The valley stream is frozen, 118. 

The violet loves a sunny bank, 89. 

The waters of my life were sweet, 109. 

The wild and windy morning is lit with lurid fire, 

80. 
The woodlands wore a gloomy green, 117. 
The years go by, old Friend ! Each, as it fleets, 

142. 
Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah, — come 

in! 'T is kind of thee, 237. 
There is naught on either hand, 208. 
There 's a mist on the meadow below ; the her- 
ring-frogs chirp and cry, 241. 
They call thee false as thou art fair, 99. 
This plant, it may be, grew from vigorous seed, 

315. 
Thou art not dead ; thou art not gone to dust, 

97. 
Thou, Bavaria's brown-eyed daughter, 14. 
Thou who sendest sun and rain, 131. 
Though they never divided my meat or wine, 

168. 
Though thy constant love I share, 317. 
Thrice three moons had waxed in heaven, thrice 

three moons had waned away, 73. 
Through days of toil, through nightly fears, 11. 
Through many years my heart goes back, 262. 
Through the lonely halls of the night, 316. 
'T is not the dropping of the flower, 128. 
'T was Friday morn : the train drew near, 135. 

Under the arches of the morning sky, 70. 
Under the full-blown linden and the plane, 313. 
Under the lamp in the tavern yard, 167. 
Unto the Desert and the Desert steed, 81. 

Victor Emanuel ! of prophetic name, 348. 

Waken, voice of the Land's Devotion ! 316. 
Was it a distant flute, 313. 
We are not old, we are not cold, 118. 
We walk amid the currents of actions left un- 
done, 164. 
Well — well ! this is a comfort, now — the air is 

as mild as May, 244. 
What if I crouch in the grass, or listlessly rock 

on the waters ? 317. 
What if we lose the seasons, 318. 
What point of Time unchronicled and dim, 21. 
When bleak winds through the Northern pines 

were sweeping, 3. 
When days were long, and o'er that farm of 

mine, 142. 
When May, with cowslip-braided locks, 116. 
When over Salamis stands Homer's moon, 324. 
When Peter led the First Crusade, 89. 
When shall I find you, sweetheart, 319. 
When the maple turns to crimson, 117. 
When the rains of November are dark on the 

hills, and the pine-trees incessantly roar, 10. 
When the stern Genius, to whose hollow tramp, 

16. 
When the uneasy waves of life subside, 95. 
Where is Gulistan, the Land of Roses ? 81. 
Where should the Poet's home and household be ? 

155. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



357 



Who, harnessed in his mail of Self, demands, 

315. 
Who shall rise and cast away, 307. 
Who shall sunder the fetters, 308. 
Whose voice shall so invade the spheres, 338. 
Why art thou dead ? Upon the hills once 

more, 8. 
Will, in his lawless mirth, 319. 
Wine, — bring wine ! 15. 
With rushing winds and gloomy skies, 137. 
Within a green and pleasant land, 152. 



Wrapped in his sad-colored cloak, the Day, like 
a Puritan, standeth, 256. 

Yes, it is May ! though not that the young leaf 

pushes its velvet, 250. 
You ask me why I sometimes drop, 93. 
You ask, O Frank ! how Love is born, 62. 
You call me cold : you wonder why, 80. 
You comfort me as one that knowing Fate, 13. 
You may water your bays, brother-poets, with 

lays, 71. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



[The titles in small capital letters are those of the principal divisions of the hook ; those in lower 
case are of single poems, or the subdivisions of long poems.] 



Accolade, The, 167. 

Ad Amicos, 248. 

American People, To the, 135. 

Amran's Wooing, 62. 

Answer, An, 80. 

Arab to the Palm, The, 78. 

Ariel in the Cloven Pine, 46. 

Artists, To the, 177. 

Assyrian Desert, A Story of the, 37. 

Assyrian Night-Song, 323. 

At Home, 93. 

Atonement, 115. 

August, 253. 

Aurum Potabile, 78. 

Autumnal Dreams, 117. 

Autumnal Vespers, 7. 

Bacchic Ode, A, 15. 
Baltimore, Through, 135. 
Bath, The, 88. 
Bavarian Girl, To a, 14. 
Bedouin Song, 69. 
Before the Bridal, 126. 
Birth of the Prophet, The, 73. 
Bison Track, The, 27. 
Burden of the Day, The, 307. 

California Ballads and Poems, 1848-1851, 19. 

California, On leaving, 91. 

Camadeva. 71. 

Canelo, El, 23. 

Canopus, 148. 

'" Casa Guidi Windows." 155. 

Cedarcroft, To the Mistress of, 104. 

Centennial Hymn. 315. 

Chant for the Bryant Festival, 143. 

Chapel. The. 119. 

Charmian, 76. 

Christmas Sonnets, 142. 

Churchyard Roses, 117. 

Continents, The, 17. 

Count of Gleichen, The, 125. 

Cupido, 149. 

Daughter. To my, 321. 

Day in March. A, 147. 

December. 115. 

Desert Hymn to the Sun, 70. 

" Down in the Dell I wandered," 98. 

Early Poems. 1. 

Epicedium. 350. 

Epistle from Mount Tmolus, An, 51. 

Eric and Axel, 168. 

Enphorion, 138. 

Exorcism, 111. 



Father, The, 129. 
Fight of Paso del Mar, The, 20. 
Fountain of Trevi, The, 89. 
Friend's Greeting, A, 321. 
From the North, 141. 
Funeral Thought, A, 16. 

Gabriel, 324. 

Garden of Irem, The, 67. 

Gettysburg Ode, 331. 

G. H. B., To, 13. 

Gleichen, The Count of, 125. 

Goethe, 338. 

Guests of Night, The, 314. 

Gulistan : an Arabic Metre, 81. 

Harp, The : an Ode, 3. 
Harpocrates, 153. 
Hassan to his Mare, 75. 
Headland, On the, 109. 
Holly-Tree, The, 239. 
Home Ballads, 235. 
Home Pastorals, 1869-1874, 247. 
Hylas, 34. 

Icarus, 86. 

If Love should come again, 119. 

Imp of Spring-Time, The, 320. 

Implora Pace, 311. 

Improvisations, 316. 

In Italy, 15. 

In my Vineyard, 158. 

In the Lists, 307. 

In the Meadows, 98. 

In the Morning, 94. 

In Winter, 118. 

Inscription to the Mistress of Cedarcroft, 104. 

Iris, 311. 

Italy, In, 15. 

Jane Reed, 242. 
John Reed, 241. 

Khalil, El, 61. 
Kilimandjaro, 72. 
Kubleh, 37. 

Lars : a Pastoral op Norway, 261. 

Later Poems, 83. 

L' Envoi (I've passed the grim and threatening 

warders), 19. 
L'Envoi (May-time and August, November, and 

over the winter to May-time), 259. 
L'Envoi (Unto the Desert and the Desert steed), 

81. 
Lost Caryatid, The, 324. 



3 6 ° 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Lost Crown, The, 93. 
Lost May, The, 116. 
Love Returned, 124. 
Lover's Test, A, 320. 
Lyrics, 1845-1851, 3. 
Lyrics, 1854-1860, 85. 

Maize, The Romance of, 28. 

Manuela, 19. 

Marah, 109. 

March, 137. 

Marie, To, 315. 

Marigold, 319. 

May-Time, 250. 

Metempsychosis of the Pine, 39. 

Miscellaneous Poems, 1861-1871, 145. 

" Moan, Ye wild Winds ! " 5. 

Mon-da-Min, 28. 

Monterey, The Pine Forest of, 21. 

Morning, 123. 

Mother, The, 129, 

My Dead, 92. 

My Farm : a Fable, 152. 

My Prologue, 323. 

Mystery, The, 97. 

Mystic Summer, The, 128. 

Napoleon at Gotha, 164. 
National Ode. The, 342. 
Neighbor, The, 94. 
Neva, The, 139. 
Nile, To the, 75. 
Nilotic Drinking Song, 71. 
Norseman's Ride, The, 17. 
Notus Ignoto, 309. 
November, 256. 
Nubia, 72. 

Obsequies in Rome, The. 348. 
Occasional Poems, 1861-1865, 133. 
Odes : — 

Bacchic, 15. 

Gettysburg, 331. 

Goethe, 338. 

National, 342. 

Obsequies in Rome, 348. 

Shakespeare's Statue, 335. 

The Harp, 3. 

To Shelley, 8. 
Old Pennsylvania Farmer, The, 244. 
On leaving California, 91. 
On the Headland, 109. 
On the Sea, 79. 
Oriental Idyl, An, 69. 

Paean to the Dawn, A, 53. 

Palm and the Pine, The, 89. 

Pandora, 156. 

Paso del Mar, The Fight of, 20. 

Peach-Blossom, 322. 

Penn Calvin, 312. 

Persian Boy, To a, 77. 

Phantom, The. 99. 

Picture, A, 97. 

Picture of St. John, The, 171. 

Pledge to Hafiz, A., G6. 

Pine Forest of Monterey, The, 21. 

Poems of the Orient, 49. 

Poet in the East, The, 54. 

Poet's Journal, The, 101. 

Porphyrogenitus, 85. 

Possession, 126. 

Proem, 249. 

Proem : To the Artists, 177. 



Proposal, 89. 

Quaker Widow, The, 237. 

Return of Spring, The, 123. 
Return of the Goddess, The, 103. 
Romances, 1849-1851, 28. 
Rome, The Obsequies in, 348. 
Run Wild, 154. 

Scott and the Veterans, 136. 

Sea, On the, 79. 

Serapion, 4. 

Shakespeare's Statue, 335. 

Shekh Ahnaf's Letter from Baghdad, 160. 

Shelley, Ode to, 8. 

Sicilian Wine, 9. 

Sleeper, The, 150. 

Smyrna, 77. 

Soldier and the Pard, The, 42. 



Bedouin Song, 69. 

' Daughter of Egypt, veil thine eyes ! ' 62. 

' From the bosom of the ocean, I seek thee,* 
13. 
God, to whom we look up blindly,' 113. 

'Love, I follow, follow thee,' 120. 

' Now the days are brief and drear,' 96. 

Song of, 1876, The, 316. 

Song of the Camp, The, 86. 

Storm Song, 11. 

' Thou who sendest sun and rain,' 131. 
Sonnets : — 

From the North, 141. 

Nubia, 72. 

Smyrna, 77. 

Statesman, A, 143. 

To a Persian Boy, 77. 

To E. C. S., 142. 

To G. H. B., 13. 

To G. H. B., 142. 

To J. L. G., 143. 

To Marie, 315. 

To R. H. S., 142. 

To T. B. A. and L. W., 142. 

4 Where should the Poet's home and house- 
hold be?' 155. 

Who, harnessed in his mail of Self, demands, 
315. 
Sorrento, 157. 
Squandered Lives, 111. 
Statesman, A, 143. 
Steyermark, 14. 

Stoddard, Richard Henry, To, 51. 
Storm-Lines, 10. 
Storm Song, 11. 
Story for a Child, A, 141. 
Studies for Pictures, 93. 
Summer Camp, The, 24. 
Summer Night, 313. 
Sunken Treasures, 95. 
Sunshine of the Gods, The, 308. 
Sylvan Spirits, 116. 
Symbol, A, 112. 

Taurus, 6. 

Temptation of Hassan Ben Khaled, The, 55. 

Test, The, 147. 

Thousand Years, A, 138. 

Through Baltimore, 135. 

To a Bavarian Girl, 14. 

To a Persian Boy, 77. 

To E. C. S., 142. 

To G. H. B., 13. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



361 



To G. H. B., 142. 
To J. L. G., 143. 
To J. G. Whittier, for his seventieth birthday, 

321. 
To John Greenleaf "Whittier, 262. 
To Marie. 315. 
To my Daughter, 321. 
To R." H. S., 142. 
To T. B. A. and L. W., 142. 
To the American People, 135. 
To the Artists. 177. 
To the Mistress of Cedar croft, 104. 
Torso, The. 10S. 
Trevi. The Fountain of, S9. 
True Love's Time of Day, 319. 
Two Greetings. The. 159. 
Two Homes, The, 310. 
Two Visions, The, 11. 
Tyre, SO. 

Under the Moon, 127. 



Under the Stars, 94. 

Village Stork, The, 326. 
Vineyard-Saint, The, 90. 
Vision. The, V24. 
Voice of the Tempter, The, 110. 
Voyagers, The, 96. 

Waves, The, 12. 
Wayside Dream, The, 13. 
Wedding Sonnet, A, 142. 

Whittier, John Greenleaf, To, 262 ; for his seven- 
tieth birthday, 321. 
Will and Law, 319. 
Wind and Sea, 92. 
Wisdom of Ali, The, 68. 
Woman, A, 125. 

Young Love, 118. 
Youth, 319. 



Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. 
Cambridge, Mass., U.S. A. 



MAR 26 1902 



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.R. 26 1902 




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